The Law of Conservation of Energy
by peroxidepest17
Summary: The law of conservation of energy states that energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed from one state into another. And what is grace, if not energy?
1. Prologue

**Title:**The Law of Conservation of Energy  
**Universe:**Supernatural  
**Theme/Topic:**N/A  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Character/Pairing/s:** light DeanxCas, Sam (appearances by Bobby, Crowley, Balthazar, and Raphael)  
**Spoilers/Warnings:** Spoilers through 6x20; AR after that.  
**Word ****Count:** 90,030  
**Summary:** The law of conservation of energy states that energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed from one state into another. And what is grace, if not energy? In order to win the war in Heaven, Castiel and the Winchesters embark on a cross-country quest to find the scattered shards of Gabriel's grace in the hopes that its remaining power will be enough to defeat Raphael.  
**Dedication:** for my awesome beta mclachlan, my amazing artist artmetica, and with special thanks to sophiap for giving this a once over for me as well. Also, with love to Sonia and Emily for letting me drag them on board this crazy train with me.  
**A/N:** Guys, you will never know how lucky I am to have all of you; there is no better cheerleader than mclachlan, because without her I definitely would have cowered in the safety and comfort of my Impala fic and while this fic is a genre/style/length I'm not really so very comfortable with, I think I'm better for having tried it. As for artmetica, you will not believe the bombardment of texts and messages I got when it was discovered she picked me; I think it's a lot like finding out from your friends that you won a prize in some amazing contest that you only entered for shit and giggles and never expected to win. I hope my story lives up to this ridiculously great (and prolific) art!  
**Disclaimer:**No harm or infringement intended.

* * *

**Prologue**

"Next to Sam, you and Bobby are the closest things I have to family. And you are like a brother to me, so if I'm asking you _not __to __do_ something, you gotta trust me, man."

Castiel stops at that moment, at those words, eyes trained carefully on Dean as his friend stands in front of him, imploring him. The human he has done everything for—given up everything for—pulses with a white hot anger Castiel can feel erupting outward all the way from his grace. For a moment the angel balks at that, at the heavy sensation of being _judged_ by this person, by this puny, mortal man who does not understand—cannot comprehend—the things Castiel has done and lost and suffered for his sake. What can a human know of him, an angel who has seen eternity, who has all the knowledge of the universe at his fingertips? Dean has no right to judge him. Dean can never fully _grasp_ the gravity or the vastness of Castiel's existence.

He is just about to say so, is going to instinctively snap that he will continue on with or without Dean's approval, that Dean cannot stop him because, in the end, Dean is nothing but a man. But when Castiel looks into Dean's eyes, he feels himself stop suddenly—feels the world and his bitter words stop with him— because he sees something else there as well, something small and warm sparking faintly under the waves of Dean's disbelieving anger and roiling betrayal. It is a familiar and unexpected creature that he discovers in the shadows of Dean's eyes in that moment, a thing as thoroughly killed and implausibly resurrected again and again as Castiel has been himself.

It is faith. It is a full and hopeful _belief_ that Castiel had not expected to see from this man ever again, especially not at this moment, as they stand, just the two of them, under Bobby's roof in the quiet dark of night with all the angel's secrets finally laid bare before them.

And somehow still, despite all these things, the hope Castiel sees before him burns white hot. It is the kind of faith that Dean has not showed in many years, not even when he had fully pledged himself to the service of the angels and to Heaven, only to be trapped in the green room and made to sit idly as his brother unknowingly destroyed the world. This hope is inexplicably strong for such a small, terribly battered thing.

Castiel realizes suddenly that somewhere, underneath all of the anger and the betrayal and the wounded disbelief, Dean still _believes_ in him.

And as Castiel looks at Dean and knows this, as the tension grows thick between them in the silent room as Dean waits for the angel to answer, Castiel feels the words he wanted to say die in his throat abruptly, fading back into nothingness at the pull he feels in Dean's eyes, at the belief he feels calling quietly out to him—pleading with him— from Dean's soul.

Castiel finds himself with a choice. How strange that as an angel—a creature made to obey— he has been forced to make so many.

He knows very well if he gives in, if he acquiesces to Dean's desires as he too often does, it will mean everything he's worked so hard for over these past two years will become nothing. He will have fought and incited and razed and cheated and lied and killed—sometimes outright _murdered__—_ for no reason at all. Just because Dean would want it.

At the end of this moment he has two options. If he chooses the first, his cause will be greatly weakened. He will be shunned by his brothers, left with nothing but the faith of a weary Righteous Man and another uphill battle against the combined forces of Heaven and Hell, all out to destroy him, to destroy the world and everything he had already died to save.

But if he chooses the other, Dean will hate him.

He feels his shoulders slump slightly as he stares at Dean—the belief he sees there, the tinny flare of hope— and already knows his answer. His decision is made.

It is the word which will send his war efforts tumbling to the ground at his feet. It is an answer which has the power to erase nearly two years of progress—two hundred years in Heaven and Hell and countless brothers and sisters dead— like none of it had ever happened. Like none of it ever mattered.

Castiel tells himself two years, two hundred years, are of no consequence. Millennia upon millennia are of no consequence.

He has lost far more for this man before. He once gave up an eternity for Dean.

"Cas?" Dean murmurs as the silence echoes onward, and he is still angry, now fearful. The flame of hope in him sputters, weakened.

Castiel does not look away from him when he answers.

"As you wish," he says.

And that is all.

He closes his eyes as he feels his empires crumble to dust with those three words. Everything is suddenly gone, swept away in the wake of choice. Beside him, Dean breathes a sigh of relief, exhales a jumble of words that might be, _"__Thank__ you.__" _ Hope flares bright and warm.

The sound of them—for the moment—makes Castiel forget all which has been lost.

For now, he still has this.


	2. Chapter 1

**One**

Bobby knows this story better than anyone. It's straight out of the Winchester handbook and classic enough that he can recite all the steps backwards, forwards, sideways and upside down. He can hear it and see it coming and have it hit him in the chest or in the back or in the kidneys and still, somehow, let it slide right off of him over and over and over again.

The Winchesters have a way of doing things that end in their worlds narrowing down into a single point. They're like charging horses with blinders on or enraged bulls with lowered heads, stampeding right towards the sharp-dressed man waving a bright red cloth at them, neither of them realizing there's something sharp and deadly waiting on the other side. For Winchesters, the center of the world—that single, narrow point— is always family. From there, the sharp and deadly things be damned.

Castiel isn't a Winchester by blood but Bobby knows sometimes it isn't as simple as blood. Being a Winchester simply means going bug fuck crazy whenever something or someone is threatening to end someone you love. The worst part is it's fucking contagious in every possible way; it's genetic, airborne, transmitted by touch, by sound, by sight, by smell, by simple proximity. Bobby is pretty sure all the exposure over the years has gotten him a barely manageable couple of cases of it himself.

In John's case it had been all about Mary; the idiot had leapt straight into the deep end without a backwards look after her death, had dragged two scared little boys who'd just lost their mother in with him and never let himself regret it for more than a minute at a time. By the time he'd finally realized what was really important—what he'd still had— he'd had to sell his soul to a demon to keep it safe. He went to Hell.

With Dean it's always been Sam; he makes all the hard choices so Sam doesn't have to. He does the dirty work, carries the heaviest burdens, kills himself over and over again to keep Sam's head above water. Being told since he'd been four that his life would never be as important as Sam's had ended with him selling his soul to a demon to keep Sam alive. He'd gone to Hell.

With Sam it's Dean, and because Sam is the smart one, because he's always believed he knows better than anyone else, he tells himself he's going to save the world, he's going to do whatever it takes to keep his brother safe even if it means defying him, betraying his trust, choosing a demon. Sam sold his soul in a different way than his daddy and his big brother, but it led to all the same things in the end, led to the apocalypse and doing whatever it took to keep Dean alive, to keep from saying yes to Michael at the expense of paradise. And Sam went to Hell.

Castiel's story isn't any different than John and Mary's or Dean and Sam's or Sam and Dean's. It doesn't sound to Bobby like an exciting new twist on the shit storm that is their lives so much as a digitally remastered remake cut together with fancier effects but still the same footage. From the moment he'd met Dean, Castiel's entire world had been pulled into the boy's orbit. He'd gotten bitten by the Winchester bug and in angels it must have mutated into something vast and incomprehensible, because after an eternity serving loyally and not asking any questions, one measly year with Dean Winchester bugging the crap out of him is all it takes for Castiel to say fuck everything, he's picking Dean and Sam over the universe. His big brothers threaten to end the world after that—a world with Dean and Sam in it—and the angel gets blown up protecting the boys like any other member of the family. Bobby isn't sure if Cas went to Hell afterwards exactly, but there's an angel equivalent, he's sure, and the poor guy must have spent some time there, getting his official Winchester Club members' card in the meantime. After that, when Cas comes back—because they always come back— he does everything in his power to keep Sam and Dean alive and whole and _themselves_ despite the fact it's slowly destroying him from the inside out. In the end, he goes ahead and gets blown up _again_ for his troubles.

Then more dick brothers come along wanting to destroy the Earth, and by this time, Cas's world has narrowed to that dangerous point that means Winchesters go nuts and make crazy demon deals to keep one another safe, even if it means resentment and trust issues and possible apocalypses in the aftermath.

Now he's stewing in a Hell of his own making.

And so there you have it. The Winchester recipe for love and family and life. It never changes, just evolves, and that's why the angel's deal with Crowley doesn't surprise Bobby when he takes everything that's happened in the last six years into consideration. Hell, it's not like he hadn't sold his own soul to the same demon for the same reasons once before, as well.

The Winchester handbook says you do what you can for your family. The thing it forgets to say is sometimes you fuck up everything else (like the world) in the pursuit of that.

In Bobby's personal version of the handbook, he's added a _forgive __and __move __on_ clause, especially when you have to move on to _keep __the __end __of __the __world __from__ happening_.

Bobby has always adapted well.

On the other hand, it seems despite the many times they have already done this, Sam and Dean haven't learned things as well as Bobby has. Which just figures.

Bobby sighs and pushes past Sam at the desk before skirting around Dean on the couch, both of them doing their very best to not talk about—or think about— anything that happened with the angel who is currently sitting repentant and forlorn in the corner like a lost puppy.

Castiel looks up when Bobby stops right in front of him, pushing a piece of paper and a pencil into the bewildered angel's hands. "Is there something I can do?" Castiel asks hesitantly, which earns a vaguely disbelieving snort from Dean and some uncomfortable shifting at the table from Sam.

Bobby wonders if either of the two idjits remember this was the guy who'd pulled them both from Hell. Might have done a piss-poor job the second time around, but Bobby likes to think what matters is _not__ being __in __Hell_. And like it or not, he's probably their best resource on all things archangel. "Take this," he grunts at the angel. "Write down everything you can think of that can kick Raphael's ass. We'll work by elimination."

Castiel frowns at him like he's already done this exercise in his head a thousand times before, but tentatively takes the paper and the pencil anyway. He settles the paper in his lap and starts scratching away with great concentration, and it is while he is like this that Bobby sees Dean look over at the angel out of the corner of his eye, tentative, uncertain. It's like those first few weeks after Sam had set Lucifer free all over again, except more awkward because Castiel has stopped trying to defend himself hours ago (a trick Sam never really picked up).

A few seconds later (and definitely way too soon to be good), Castiel solemnly hands the paper back to Bobby. It reads, in very neat, very concise script:

_God  
Michael  
Lucifer  
Gabriel  
Someone with all the souls of purgatory at their disposal_

Bobby snorts, because _of __course _the angel decides to stop being helpful _now_. "That really it?"

"That I am aware of," Castiel answers, and Bobby sighs and passes the list on to Sam, who looks at it with a frown, before looking at Castiel with weighty, unreadable eyes.

Castiel stares distantly at his lap. If angels fidget, this is how they do it.

After a beat of prolonged silence, Bobby decides he wants to hit everyone with sticks. "Well okay then," he begins. "What is it about all these things that makes them capable of kicking Raphael's ass in the first place?" He might as well be reasonable. Someone ought to be. The world could end.

"Power," Castiel answers vaguely, and Dean rolls his eyes at the angel for that one.

"Obviously, dude. He's asking what makes them more powerful than you and Raph in the first place," Dean clarifies, and apparently his frustration at the angel's unhelpful equivocating is strong enough to pull him out of the dark, contemplative funk of betrayal he's been nursing like a bottle of whiskey over the past few days. Thank God (or whoever) for that.

Dean and Castiel stare at each other.

Bobby sighs at the exact same time Sam does.

"I suppose in the simplest terms, it would be a matter of… size?" Castiel offers after a beat of carefully thinking over his words, like there aren't any perfect ones in any language to explain this to a bunch of primitive humans. Either that or he's wary of pushing the wrong button and pissing Dean off again.

"So what, his is bigger or something?" Dean snorts, because the idjit can't help himself when he gets an opening that good.

"Yes," Castiel answers seriously, and misses the bus on that whole thing, which takes the wind right out of Dean's sails again. "He is older and has much more grace than I do. That is what it means to be an archangel, Dean."

"Well, how does someone get to be an archangel?" Bobby pushes. "God just decided to stuff them with bigger batteries than you, right? How do we make your battery bigger?"

"That doesn't involve opening the door to purgatory," Dean qualifies, hastily. He slams the book on his lap shut. "Because we're still not doing that."

Castiel huffs and looks at Dean in a way Bobby thinks must be the angel equivalent of rolling his eyes. "Yes, we have established that, Dean."

Dean scowls back. "Well, just wanted to clarify. You were looking shifty."

"This is how I always look."

"Maybe you always look shifty lately," Sam adds, with a pointed look that means he's still pissed about the _oops,__forgot __the __soul_ thing.

"Not helping, Sam," Dean barks back at his brother, because apparently he can call his angel shifty and look all accusatorily at him but no one _else_ is allowed to.

"Yeah, well, neither is any of this," Sam mutters back lamely, though he does turn back to the list. After a minute, his brow furrows and he sniffs to himself, clearly deep in thought. At least it's something.

Bobby sighs and wordlessly grabs a bottle of rotgut to offer to the angel, who has gone all slump-shouldered and awkward again, like he acknowledges Sam's hit. Castiel stares at the bottle like he wishes it were enough to get him drunk.

Silence reigns for a while longer. Bobby gives up peacekeeping and goes to heat up some MREs and get more booze.

By the time he gets back and doles out a pouch of something that is somehow too salty and flavorless all at once to all parties, Sam is getting an increasingly deep furrow in his brow.

"Well?" Bobby prompts, when he sees Sam's eyes go from his book to the list, to Castiel, to the book, and then the list again. "Spit it out, son."

Sam looks vaguely sheepish. "It's just… Castiel said souls are energy, right? Pure energy."

From the corner, Castiel eyes the contents of his MRE like he expects it to crawl out of the pouch and try to eat his face at any moment. Bobby had spent five minutes in the kitchen wondering if he should heat one up for the angel in the first place because he obviously wouldn't need it, but didn't want the dumbass to feel like he was being excluded because Bobby was pissed at him too.

These are the complicated feelings of men, or something.

"Yes," Castiel answers Sam eventually, and gamely puts the tip of his index finger into some ubiquitous gravy with the consistency of jelly.

"And grace…what is that?"

"Energy," Castiel answers, staring at his gravy-coated finger like he'd like to smite the stuff on principle. "We are filled with the energy of our creation; our births. Our Father gave us form and awareness and then filled us with the power of existence."

Sam contemplates this, and is getting into the whole discussion enough that he seems to have momentarily forgotten his distrust of Castiel, which has the effect of making Dean look a little less tense from the couch. "So… what's the difference?" Sam presses. "I mean, you can obviously convert the energy of a soul into energy you can use with your grace, if you need to convert it all. I'm not sure how it works."

Castiel seems to consider it. "Human souls are compatible with grace," he says after a while.

Sam _hmmms._"So what happens when you use up a soul's energy? Does it just… die?" He looks vaguely accusatory at Castiel when he says this, like he thinks the angel has murdered the eternal souls of whoever he'd taken from Crowley in Hell and sucked them dry like some sort of Chinese chi vampire before leaving their dry, shriveled husks by the wayside.

Castiel doesn't answer for a moment, and for a second, Bobby worries that Sam and all his judgmental bitchfacing is _right_.

"Well?" Dean demands, when no one says anything else for a while.

"Souls are eternal," Castiel says eventually, eyes flickering down to his own chest like he feels them in there, rolling around. "Energy cannot be created or destroyed. It is a rule my Father created and which we must all live by."

"Physics," Sam says, probably for Dean's benefit. Bobby knows well enough about the laws of conservation of energy. He's a goddamned mechanic, and engines run on combustion.

"Thought that rule only applied in a closed system," Bobby says after a beat. "That apply here?"

The angel blinks. "The Earth is its own system."

"Woah, woah, woah, so then shouldn't you be good?" Dean asks, with another sidelong glance at the angel. "If you've got all the energy from those souls Crowley forwarded you."

"That energy was…used," Castiel explains. "Much as a car burns fuel."

Dean balks. "So you're telling me you fricasseed all those souls just so you could punch your big brother in the face, Cas? Fifty thousand people just cease to exist?"

Castiel looks vaguely irritated at the accusation of mass murder. "The greater part of the energy from the souls has been used, but the souls themselves—the essence of the people they had been— have not been killed. As I said, Dean, a soul is eternal. They have been…incorporated into my grace. They are not dead. They have not ceased to exist. They have simply been…changed in form."

Sam looks torn between being disgusted and fascinated at this revelation. The muscles in Dean's cheek are twitching in a way that means he's clamping his teeth together and _grinding_ a little to keep quiet. Bobby would bet money on it being because even if those people had been in Hell, and even if 90% of them had probably deserved to be there (not forgetting that they might have one day become a demon that had to be ganked) it still _sucks_ that they'd just stopped being _them_ and had been shoved into the swirling mass of whatever it is inside an angel without any say in the matter.

"So grace and souls are compatible power sources," Sam sums up quickly, because he sees the way Dean is quietly simmering on the couch and they should probably get to the point before Dean snaps, "and that makes it possible for the energy from a soul to transform into a part of you."

"Yes," Castiel says. Bobby furrows his brow, trying to catch up to where Sam's ridiculous brain is trying to go with this. He thinks he's getting an inkling of something, but not much more.

"Would you please get to the point?" Dean demands, not bothering to hide how much he does not understand what's happening or how much that worries him. The fate of his angel (and the world, but that has always been secondary to family to him) hinges on their ability to figure out an alternative that does not mean opening the door to Purgatory and letting all sorts of badness out. "How the hell is any of this gonna help us?"

"Because," Sam says, holding up Castiel's list and waving it at his brother, "if energy can't be created or destroyed, because if grace and souls are compatible sources of power, because if Cas can turn souls into a part of himself without frying himself, then why can't we just find out wherever the energy from one of these dead archangels' graces went and shove it into Cas instead? It has to be out there, right? If it's eternal."

Silence.

Then, after what seems like hours, Castiel huffs a breath and very slowly says, "It is a… possibility I had not considered."

Dean frowns slightly. "Yeah but where do angels go when they die?"

Everyone looks expectantly at Castiel.

Who scowls. "I was dead. I had no awareness of where I was. Either time."

"It's something worth looking into," Sam insists. "And we at least know of one archangel who died on our turf."

"Gabriel," Castiel murmurs, looking, for a moment, mournful at the reminder of a lost brother. Maybe the only other one in all of heaven who had found something on the Earth that was worth saving.

Dean still looks kind of skeptical as he considers their options. "Gabriel's grace, huh? You really okay taking on that kind of juice, Cas?" And Bobby knows it's a fair question; archangel grace had exploded Castiel once, after all. Granted, another angel was still attached at the time, but Dean's just making sure here. Bobby has always known Dean as the Winchester who took the best care of his stuff.

In the meantime, Castiel fixes Dean with those too-serious, too-tired eyes and after a moment of brief hesitation, the angel nods. "I believe I can do it without causing myself irreparable damage," he says, just a tinge of hopeful in his voice, "and as it is the only feasible idea we have come across yet, I feel we should explore it further."

Sam is triumphant.

Dean snorts and leans back against the sofa, brow furrowed like he's not sure if he believes the angel just yet, but looking a lot like he really _wants_ to. It's always been amazing to Bobby that a kid who's so used to getting his hope stomped on time and time again always seems to find a way to keep hold of a little somehow.

Bobby sinks down into a chair with a huff to eat his lunch and thinks maybe things are going better this time around. At least no one is crying this time, and if Bobby knows these Winchesters like he thinks he knows them—which is better than anyone else— those awkward, sideways looks, those inappropriate barbs and scoffs and all the tiptoeing steps around each other mean that it might only take a few months of beating the shit out of each other before whatever is it that's wrong between them is fixed again, as best as they can be fixed. Maybe the world doesn't even have to end in the meantime either. "Well okay then," he grunts, and twists open the top to his lukewarm beer decisively. "How do you suppose we find a dead archangel's grace, anyway?"

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "Whatever the answer is, I doubt it's in any of these," he says, gesturing to the stacks of open books in front of him. "No offense, Bobby."

Bobby shrugs and sips his beer before turning expectant eyes on the angel. "Well?"

Castiel, looking vaguely relieved, sets his MRE down on the end table—still completely full— and says, "Perhaps we should go to the source."


	3. Chapter 2

**Two**

Castiel steps effortlessly into the world in between and shakes out his wings, all too familiar with the sensations that come with going from vessel to incorporeal form by now. He suspects that he is more familiar, more practiced, in this act than any angel before him. He automatically tucks Jimmy's body safely inside of himself with a thought as he shifts into Death's domain, as easy as taking one coat off and exchanging it for another. He blinks once, eases onto the reapers' road more fully, and opens his eyes—both those that humans can see and those they cannot— to take in his surroundings. The facsimile of the mortal realm is a fair approximation of what he had just now left behind, a dingy building in an overcrowded ghetto where people had been yelling cheerful slurs in drunken Cantonese at each other over a game involving tiles while drinking cheap rice wine with an odor sharp enough to burn his vessel's nostrils. Castiel can still see and hear the movements of the living here, can squint and view the whole Earth just as he always has been able. The only difference is that when he is here, the things he sees are no more than reflections of reality; images of light on glass that are bright and visible but for the moment, also untouchable because of the barrier of dimensions is a closed window between them.

It is peaceful somehow, in its own way, to be in the world but at the same time apart from it, not weighed down by his awareness of or concern for mortal life but walking—for the moment—far, far above it.

But that moment is gone quickly, disrupted by the very sound of one of those mortals dying in the immediate distance. It grabs Castiel's attention and wrenches him sharply from the sensation of being _apart_ through the unwelcome tones of an EKG monitor announcing a medically induced heart attack. It claims, however momentarily, the life of the person on the other side of the door Castiel is standing in front of in the long, lonely hallway.

When the door opens a few moments later it is the face of Dean's soul that greets him. Castiel frowns into the room behind Dean and sees the body he has left behind inside, as it lies beside the squirrely back alley doctor who times Dean's death on a cheap wristwatch while holding the paddles to the defibrillator that he will use to restart Dean's heart several minutes hence. It will be unnecessary as far as Castiel is concerned, but then again, all of this is.

"Well?" Dean asks when he finds himself face to face with the angel. He glances around, somewhat anxiously. Castiel resists the urge to reach out and touch him, to send him forcibly back to his body and away from here. He does not like to see Dean this way.

Dean seems to read his thoughts and snorts. "I'm staying, Cas," he rumbles defiantly as he shuts the door behind him with a sharp slam.

"I don't require your help to speak with Death," Castiel answers him darkly, half irritated that Dean mistrusts him enough now to think that he requires constant supervision and half frenzied at the sight of Dean being—for all intents and purposes—dead before him. Again.

And this time, _because_of him.

It is a deeply unsettling thing for Castiel to behold, because this, despite everything, has always been the one thing Castiel has been fighting so fervently to avoid above all else. Everything that has led them here comes from his desire for Dean to survive, more than the rest of humanity, more than the world, more than himself and all the angels in Heaven combined. Funny, then, that Castiel's actions have only led to Dean insisting that he die. Maybe not funny. He doesn't feel the need to laugh.

"Stop making that face. I'm already here so it's not worth arguing about," Dean barks at him, eyes flashing impatience. "Let's just get a move on, before I really bite it."

Castiel does not move. "I realize you no longer trust me, but you must at least believe that I do not wish to see you dead, even for a minute." Pause. Sigh. "And I would not allow you to permanently die on that man's table."

Dean scowls and crosses his arms. "Well then quit worrying. The sooner we find Death, the sooner you can resuscitate me or whatever." Dean makes a face. "Though I'm just gonna throw this out there, man. If you'd been the one to kill me in the first place, you coulda saved me a couple hundred bucks."

"I will not kill you," Cas snaps back, feeling the familiar edge of fury creeping into his tone at Dean's odd demands on him. "You should know by now that I would never agree to end your life. Especially for something as superfluous as your presence here."

Dean shifts. "Well I don't think it is, so just humor me, okay? I want to know exactly what the hell you're getting up to in here. No more sneaky deals, Cas. We're doing everything out in the open."

"You do not need to watch over my every action in this way, Dean," Castiel repeats anyway, quieter now, but with a surprising sensation of hurt behind the words.

Dean frowns back at him and either doesn't care that Castiel is wounded by his actions or is actually taking some satisfaction from it. "Yeah well, I didn't need anyone watching my every move either, but you did it all last year anyway, didn't you?" he throws back at the angel, without hesitation. They stare intently at each other in the hallway as those words draw a line in the dirt between them for a moment, before Castiel realizes that they are wasting time and that this is not new to Dean, this sensation of simultaneous loyalty and mistrust. It is, at the very least, something Castiel knows can be fixed between himself the human standing before him, if Dean does indeed consider him family. All it will take is time and the appropriate effort on Castiel's part, as it had with Sam before him. At least, this is what the angel tells himself to keep hope alive, as he had been forced to do what seems a lifetime ago, when his grace had been waning and every corner of the Earth failed to reveal even the slightest glimpse of his Father. He had to believe then as well, or despair would have overtaken him and laid him flat—useless— in times of need.

The angel tears his eyes from Dean's and for a second, feels a strange sympathy for Sam, who had stood in these very circumstances not so long ago, who always seems to be standing at the precipice of falling into them time and time again. Castiel supposes it's good that he can still feel things like that. That he remembers.

"We should find Death," he says eventually, eyes trained on the tops of his shoes as he turns and makes his way down the corridor before Dean can say anything else hurtful or already acknowledged simply for the chance to land Castiel a blow. As it stands, the frown lines at the edges of Dean's lips say more than enough.

"Yeah. Just look for the reaper," Dean murmurs at Castiel's back, the illusion of his boots making the illusion of sound echo down the narrow hallway as he stubbornly pushes past the angel to the top of the staircase. He gives Castiel one last, unreadable look out of the corner of his eyes before plowing down the steps towards the ground floor. Castiel faithfully follows. "She usually shows up right about…"

Castiel finds himself having to reach forward to catch Dean by the back of his shirt when he abruptly runs into Dean's back after the human inexplicably comes to a full stop at the base of the next landing. Dean would not really fall in this place, but Castiel suspects Dean would still feel the sensation of falling, which is disconcerting enough for any mortal, let alone one who is so recently dead. Castiel gently pulls his weight backwards, until Dean regains his balance again and can stand without falling down the final eight steps. Once settled on his own feet again, Dean hastily shrugs the angel's hand from his back with a muffled sound of irritation—or gratitude, because for Dean they often sound similar— as he stares at the entity now before them, waiting at the foot of the stairs.

"Dean. Castiel," Tessa says, and nods up at them in irate, but resigned greeting.

For a moment, the reaper's voice is enough to make an angel still as well. He does not like her. She has always seemed unduly determined to collect Dean's soul.

"Hey, Tessa," Dean manages after a minute, sounding calm enough in the face of a messenger of death. Even still, Castiel sees it when Dean's body leans forward slightly and to his right, feet shifting just enough to place himself more firmly between the reaper and the angel, instinctively protective. "Long time no see," Dean adds, with a small upturning of his mouth that either means he is pleased to see her or that he takes amusement in the fact that she is probably displeased to find him before her again.

"I'm sick of seeing you so often, to be honest," she answers plainly, because reapers have no need to play the little games humans do with their words and their looks and their strange actions. Dean's amusement turns slightly more genuine upon hearing that, and he finishes descending the final flight of stairs in order to return to the noisy storefront. Castiel finds himself irritated that Dean shows so little wariness in the presence of the pretty reaper simply because she has become a familiar face to him now.

"Well, if you can go get us your boss, I'll be out of your hair quick," Dean tells her with a charming grin and a twinkle in his eye, while Castiel continues to loom menacingly behind him. The reaper notices, but does not seem appropriately intimidated by the angel's glare or his impressive wingspan.

"Easy there, angel," is all she says, holding both hands up in a placating manner. "Death is waiting. I'm just here to take you to your meeting." She manages a slightly amused smile. "I know for us, Winchesters are okay to look at, but not to touch."

Dean snorts and pushes on to the door. "All right, so where is he?"

"Having lunch," Tessa shrugs, and Castiel feels it when she uses her power to bend the world around them _just__so,_ and they step toward the store's doorway with a tinkling of a bell.

Once through, instead of on a street outside, they find themselves in a restaurant inside, where Death sits at an elegantly set, candlelit table, slowly sawing at a piece of bloody steak with a look of delicious anticipation on his face.

Death must notice their arrival, because even as he doesn't look at them, the corner of his thin lips quirk ever so slightly upwards. "Dean. Castiel. Have a seat," he says, and finally cuts clean through the first chunk of his meal. "Tessa, you may go."

She bows and silently fades from the room as Death takes the moment to savor his first bite of grilled animal flesh, chewing it slowly, shutting his eyes, making an exaggerated expression of enjoyment. Castiel wonders if this display of humanity is for Dean's sake or for his.

"Neither," Death murmurs, eyeing Castiel like he is no more than a naïve child who needs everything carefully explained to him. Castiel bristles instinctively at the implication, but then remembers that before him sits the one being more powerful than God. He forces himself to quell his irritation.

Death smirks back, as if he knows exactly what the angel is thinking. "I really do enjoy a good steak every now and again, you know. In this day and age I find it has become my weapon of choice, really. Heart disease, high cholesterol, obesity, excess. It makes my job much easier. This modern day and age makes my job easier. And so I find I have more time to enjoy the little things."

Beside him, Dean snorts. "What, so you're saying now there's an app for you?"

The words don't seem to make sense to either Death or Castiel, and so go without response. Instead, Death pauses to sip at a wineglass and gestures to the two chairs opposite him again. "Please. Sit."

Even as he says it politely, the words do not feel like a request. Cautiously, Dean hooks the toe of a boot around one of the chair legs and pulls it out before sliding into it. He gives Castiel a look that implores him to do the same. Castiel wordlessly takes a seat, watching Death carefully the whole time. Death doesn't seem to care.

"So, what is it I can do for you this time?" Death asks Dean instead, perfectly amicably but with an edge in his voice that means he is not amused by this visitation, this open trespassing within the realm he rules. He eyes Castiel again, knife in hand, sawing at the grain of his meat. It oozes blood and grease onto the plate below and Castiel feels the thought of red meat make something in his human memory salivate and something else in his grace rebel. "Have you come to barter an angel to me for another favor?"

Dean bristles. "Like hell."

Death smirks. "Why not? You seem rather put off by him at the moment. I could take him off your hands if you wish, easily enough. Angels used to be a rather rare commodity for me and mine, but lately it seems like they're leaves in the wind." Pause. "Though I suppose this one _is_ special. I nearly had him twice already but then…" he snaps his fingers. "Gone every time. Just like that." Sigh. "Just like a Winchester, actually."

"Yeah well, you're not getting Cas," Dean reiterates, and the ferocity behind it in Death's own face makes Castiel simultaneously rejoice and fear that Death will not take this lack of respect very well. Dean is often the only one who can evoke such contrasting emotions in Castiel, over and over again.

Dean clears his throat. "We're just here for some information, and then we'll be out of your hair."

"Oh by all means then, trespass on my home, make trouble in the balance of life and death, spit in Fate's face, and then ask me whatever you want. I'm all for helping you when I can, Dean Winchester," Death drawls, cutting into his steak again, very calmly. "Especially when you bring me the one angel in all creation that is causing me almost as much trouble as you and your brother."

Dean looks accusatorily at Cas. "Cas, you been giving Death trouble?"

"This is the first time I have seen him in person," Castiel insists.

"Oh yes, and a war between Heaven and Hell over purgatory has no bearing on what _I_ do," Death says, the brittle edges of his voice growing sharper still. "Because I don't have to attempt to maintain a balance between the three despite all of your best efforts to destroy one another like spiteful children."

"Yeah well, we're working on that," Dean says. "Cas is going to end it."

An arched eyebrow. "Oh? And that's what you need me for?"

"Your information," Castiel clarifies. "I would not expect a neutral entity to take a side in this war."

"And how is giving you information maintaining neutrality?"

"You may see fit to give it to anyone who asks you for it," Castiel says. "The fact that we have simply asked first shows no particularity on your part."

"Comforting," Death murmurs, and puts his knife and fork down. "All right then, what information are you looking for, Castiel?"

Castiel looks Death in the eye. "We wish for you to tell us where angels go when they die."

Death actually smirks at that. "Shouldn't you be the expert?"

Castiel hesitates. "I believe both instances of my demise were too brief to experience or recall any sort of angelic afterlife, if there is indeed such a thing," he says. "And my second death was as a human."

"Well, you were a bit of a special case in both instances," Death concedes eventually.

"And no one less special than Cas has come back to give us the lowdown," Dean interrupts. "So that leaves you. I mean, you can reap God, so clearly you're the guy with the highest level clearance on this stuff."

Death almost laughs at Dean. "So you've killed yourself to ask me an existential question? That's rather comedic."

"I told him his presence was not required here," Castiel intones again.

Dean glares at them both. "Well if you'd just tell us, we could get the hell out of here and let you get back to lunch. Would be a shame to waste a cut of ribeye like that."

Death contemplates the suggestion and eventually seems to find the reasoning behind it sound enough, despite the source. "Everywhere," he says, after what feels like a very long time of swirling the wine around in his cup.

Castiel and Dean share a rather confused look. Castiel wonders if sharing these types of things with a human also makes him, officially, Heaven's stupidest angel.

"Everywhere what?" Dean asks, not bothering to hide how little that makes sense to him.

"When an angel dies," Death repeats, slowly, "it goes everywhere."

Dean blinks. Castiel contemplates this.

"It's like watching a star explode at the end of a galaxy," Death murmurs, voice vaguely far off. "All the base components it was comprised of suddenly separate, flying off in every possible direction, in the air, the dirt, the water, sometimes even into the life forms around them. They ripple outward with energy, as far as the violence and power behind their death sees fit to take them. Wherever they land, these components remain until they slowly decompose, reabsorbed into Heaven to begin the cycle anew."

Dean blinks. "So angels…go to Heaven when they die?"

Death's gaze on him is like a laser point of disdain. "Most of the components will make their way back to their point of origin as a source of energy, much as your human body will one day become nothing more than insect excrement to fertilize the grass. But bits and pieces of grace might get stuck along the way—preserved like a mummy, if we are going to continue to liken this to the decomposition of a human— and meld with the Earth like a residue rather than fall into the regular cycle of life and death in Heaven."

Castiel frowns, tilting his head sideways as he absorbs this. "Is it possible to capture this loose energy that does not return to heaven?"

Death shrugs. "The pieces would be too small to make the effort worth it, I'd imagine. Your kind explodes very well, from what I've been able to observe thus far."

"What about for an archangel?" Dean pushes. "They're…bigger, or whatever, right?"

Death considers this. "An archangel has never died before Gabriel," he admits. "Usually they are impossible to kill, which was why Lucifer was thrown into the pit instead of destroyed for defying God's will. But you are correct on that front; from what I know of the archangels' creation—and God did like to show those of his toys off more than any other— the shock of something as large as an archangel's grace being reabsorbed into Heaven all at the same time would overload the system, in a manner of speaking." He sighs then, and fiddles absently with a corner of his napkin. "I will admit that if nothing else, God was a brilliant engineer. There _is_ a failsafe on the offhand chance that an archangel would die, which is, I suppose, what you have somehow managed to stumble upon with your tiny monkey brains."

Dean scowls.

"Or Sam, I'm guessing," Death continues, nonplussed by both Castiel and Dean's umbrage at his remarks. Castiel is slightly cowed at not having thought of this option himself, in retrospect. He wants to blame it on the fact that his universe has since narrowed to a point upon first pulling Dean from Hell, and he has never been able to see past the immediacy of that since. At the same time, an angel thinking like a human during a war with other angels seems incredibly stupid; he is surprised he has somehow managed to make it this far doing so.

"In any case," Death continues, eyes trained on Castiel, "the failsafe seems to work in your favor this time. An archangel's grace would not return at once to Heaven; it shatters, just like the others do, but lays dormant for a time, until it is faded enough that it can be reabsorbed into the universe without hurting the system with more energy than it is used to processing at once. I suppose it's not unlike how you humans store nuclear waste when you bury it underground until enough time has passed for the radiation levels to die down to an acceptable level."

Castiel frowns. "So the pieces of Gabriel's grace are lying dormant until they are weak enough to return to Heaven without causing us pain."

"For the time being," Death agrees. "I suspect you shouldn't have to wait very long until they are ready to return home, however. It has been some time since I took him, after all."

Castiel turns to Dean, vaguely panicked at the thought. "Dean," he intones, "we must hurry then, or the grace will reintegrate into Heaven, and will only provide a greater amount of fuel for both armies to feed off of."

Dean balks. "Yeah, I get that. But how many friggin' pieces are there? How long will this take?" He crosses his arms impatiently. "I mean, will this still work if we only get half of them?"

"It is unlikely," Castiel surmises. It is true Gabriel had been considerably older and more powerful than Raphael, but it does not mean Raphael lacks strength. Half of Gabriel's grace would be a boost, but not likely enough to give Castiel a permanent advantage against a full-fledged archangel.

"Seven pieces," Death interrupts, when he seems to grow bored of watching Castiel think. "Your Father created angels with seven base components. When grace shatters, it breaks down into these basic pieces, like stars exploding into their atomic elements."

"The seven principles with which God created us all," Castiel agrees, while Dean just looks confused. "It is strongest in the archangels, his first true children."

"Okay then. Seven's not so bad," Dean breathes, seemingly more to reassure himself than Castiel. "So that means we're doing this."

Death stands to leave, wiping his fingertips clean with his napkin. "I suppose you are. Though, one final word of warning, because I am feeling generous after such a wonderful meal," he adds with a smile that is more grim than anything else. "If our little angel here wishes to upgrade his battery to the new and improved archangel sized model, I would recommend getting rid of the old one first. An archangel's grace and Castiel's original—and somewhat undersized— essence fighting for dominance within the same angel would not, I surmise, bode well for our friend here. Especially since there is no way his grace would win that battle. Taking into account what I know of God's tendencies as an engineer, chances are that a fight of that magnitude would just make poor little Castiel explode. For, what, is it the third time now? I can never keep up with you Winchesters and your many inexplicable resurrections." He waves a hand dismissively before donning his hat and turning to go. "Wonderful seeing you boys again," he drawls somewhat ironically, before heading towards the door.

"Wait!" Dean calls after him, clearly not satisfied with this advice as he leaps to a standing position at the table, full of bluster and incomprehension. "So, what, you're saying everything we do, all that work, and all it could get us is a dead angel in the end? How the hell do we keep him from exploding?"

Death looks at his watch. "I'm sure you'll figure something out. You're nothing if not imaginative in all the ways you have learned how to avoid me over time. Goodbye, Dean, Castiel," he says, and pushes through the door without so much as a pause or a backwards glance. The tinkling of the small bells hanging over the restaurant's exit and Dean's huffed indignation are all that can be heard in the room in the moments immediately following Death's departure from it.

Eventually, Dean turns to Castiel, looking a mixture of enraged and stricken. "So what, we do your magical archangel parts quest and you could just _explode_ again because you can't handle the juice? There's got to be another way, man."

Castiel doesn't believe there is, not at this point. So rather than answer, the angel focuses on the ticking of a cheap wristwatch some distance away, and the growing panic of a pasty old man in an illegal back alley clinic as the defibrillator paddles in his hands once again fail to resuscitate a patient who has been dead on his table for more than eight minutes now.

Wordlessly, the angel reaches out and presses warm fingertips to Dean's forehead.


	4. Chapter 3

**Three**

Dean is obviously unhappy when they appear in Bobby's living room again, shoulders hunched forward and scowling because hey, that had been an enormous waste of time and money. Castiel seems as nonplussed as ever beside him.

"Not good, huh?" Bobby murmurs, after he takes one look at Dean's troubled expression.

"Not good when all we've got is something that might freaking make Cas _explode_ again," Dean grunts, and doesn't feel like elaborating any more than that.

"According to Death it would only a possibility," Castiel reminds him, while Sam looks between the two of them in confusion. "If we take the necessary precautions as he warned us to, I might not."

"But you might," Dean throws back, articulately.

"What are you talking about, Dean?" Sam finally asks, watching carefully (and kind of judgmentally, if Dean is perfectly honest), as Dean stalks into the kitchen to grab a fresh bottle of whiskey. It's ten in the morning. Five o'clock somewhere.

When he reemerges from the kitchen, everyone is still looking at him all expectant like. He sighs. "Death says that for Cas not to turn into a giant mushroom cloud on us, he has to rip out his grace. Which gives him exactly zero lines of defense against Raphael and Crowley when they come gunning for him while we look for the bits of Gabriel scattered all over the who knows where. Oh, and these bits might make him explode anyway." Dean runs a hand over his face as he says this, the whiskey bottle clutched tight in his fingers as he plops down on the couch beside his brother. He takes a long drink before speaking again. "Whatever. I didn't like that idea anyway. I mean, what if Cas got taken over by the ghost of Gabriel or something? That would suck."

"Gabriel is no longer alive, Dean," Castiel answers, looking sideways at him like he's trying to find out where Dean's sudden concern is coming from. "His grace is nothing more than energy. He very likely does not have the power to influence it in such a state. If he did, I imagine he would seek to resurrect himself."

Dean hunkers down in his seat and tries not to be hurt whenever Cas looks at him like he doesn't expect Dean to give two shits about him surviving so long as they win this. "Yeah, well I say it's not worth the gamble. Human Cas, exploding Cas, Gabe Cas, or otherwise," he says, and pointedly avoids the telling looks Bobby and Sam both give him when he says that. Instead, he stares right at the angel, who still looks like he's thinking thinky things about the problem at hand that hopefully have nothing to do with why certain people would like for him to stay intact, regardless of what else may happen. "We'll find another way. There's gotta be more than one option, right?"

Sam considers this. "Well, I mean, Cas isn't the only angel who doesn't like what Raphael's doing. Can't we enlist Balthazar or that Rachel girl to watch our backs while Cas is graceless?"

Dean scowls. "Options that don't involve having to rip our angel apart," he reiterates hotly, because that is the important part of this equation. Bobby's eyebrows dart up as he mouths "_our_?" to Sam. Dean notices it because they aren't exactly subtle, but roundly ignores them and turns back to Cas, who has drifted slightly closer to the couch now, though he keeps a certain distance, kind of like a puppy that got yelled at earlier and still isn't sure whether or not it's forgiven. The image simultaneously amuses and horrifies him for how fucking endearing it is, so Dean covers it up by taking a very long pull from the bottle.

"Rachel is dead," Cas says eventually, eyes still glued magnetically to the tops of his shoes and sounding like he doesn't want to elaborate on what happened to his friend since the last time she'd fluttered in to pinch hit for the boss. Dean gets a sinking feeling in his stomach that has him taking another mouthful of Bobby's whiskey, fast enough and hard enough for the older hunter to glare at him and tell him to take it easy on the supplies before lunch.

Dean clears his throat. "Well, we've still got that smarmy bastard Balthazar in the game, right? He have anything else hidden away in the heavenly arsenal that can give you a boost?"

The angel gives him a dubious expression, and okay, Dean knows that's reaching considering it was probably be the first place Cas looked for help, all things considered, but at this point Dean is not beyond checking their lists twice or whatever. "I think if he did have such a thing in his possession, he would have already offered it to our cause, given the circumstances," Castiel intones after a beat, and good to know that even when he's rocking the kicked puppy vibes, he can still break out the good old human sarcasm when he really wants to. Dean frowns at him. Castiel frowns back.

"We'll keep looking. In the meantime, you two can go ahead and unbunch your panties," Bobby barks after a minute, and tosses Dean a book before his staring contest with Cas can get too intense. Dean manages to catch the book instinctively, but keeps his eyes on the sulking angel the entire time anyway.

Cas sighs heavily and looks away first, which makes Dean feel a small thrill of triumph, however petty it might be. "I will summon Balthazar and consult with him on what can be done," the angel tells Dean after two deep breaths and another intense perusal of Bobby's floor.

Dean grunts in satisfaction as he opens up Bobby's book and settles down onto the couch more comfortably. "Well all right then." Pause. Then, carefully, "We'll find something, Cas. We always do."

Cas nods once, stiffly. "We will."

And then disappears in a flurry of wing beats while Sam looks at Dean like he wants to ask if giving up on his good idea is really a good idea.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean says, without having to tear his eyes away from the text.

Sam's mouth shuts with an audible snap.

Bobby just snorts and calls them both idjits under his breath.

* * *

Castiel lands deep in the junkyard some moments later, beside the broken husk of a rusted Escalade raised on blocks and the mechanical remains of a Focus that have been warped from sun and wind and rain in this manmade metal graveyard. The skeletons and stories of the broken vehicles glint dully in the waning sunlight against his periphery, flashing moments of brilliance and the tales of lifetimes in miles as he stalks by them. A crumpled sedan to his left killed two drunken teenagers going to prom, crushing them to pieces against the tree they had driven into on one night of youthful negligence. A battered old Volvo that had been the first car of three generations of humans in the same family sits to his right, lovingly cared for and handed down from descendant to descendant until it simply would not move anymore, or was no longer worth the cost of replacing. Before him is a vehicle first manufactured in Japan, created amongst sleek robotic arms designed to usurp human workmanship, touted for compact design and ultimate convenience a decade ago, now rotting in the South Dakota sun and wind after it had been stolen multiple times and then scrapped for parts. All these histories are made apparent to him simply by laying eyes on the empty shells of the cars, and in them he sees much his own story at once, a vehicle used to get from one place to another by two beloved humans, wrecked time and time again, scarred and broken down, flipped and crashed and turned throughout the length of the journey as he fought to take them to wherever it was they wished to go. He will be discarded soon enough by them as well, he thinks, as these vehicles had been before him. But he is determined not to let it be a story of falling to the wayside, of becoming useless in the service of the humans under whose care he resides.

Castiel has long ago resigned himself to the fact that it he will likely die in Heaven's civil war. He has accepted it as a necessary loss if it means that the Earth which Dean fought so hard to protect will continue on. If it means that Dean and Sam can continue on.

This chance they have now, the mission to retrieve the shards of Gabriel's broken grace, is the most tactically sound approach he has come upon in this war yet, even more so than Purgatory. He and all others of his acquaintance know very little of what truly lies beyond Purgatory's gate. Souls of course, but perhaps more than that at once, perhaps too much. To reassemble an archangel's grace and use it to defeat Raphael will protect the Earth from the likes of Eve again, will keep the door closed to Purgatory's angry denizens and the possibility that they will decide to fight back against the demons and the angels who would use them for their own means. If Castiel is to die in the process, what does it matter? He has died so many times already that it is no longer a novel or intimidating thought.

Broken glass crunches under his shoes as he looks up at the setting sun with a strange feeling of equanimity. He leans against the hood of a crippled Charger that might yet be salvaged, if only Dean or Bobby remembers it in time.

"Balthazar," he says next, barely a whisper above the gentle, early summer breeze in the air. He does not need to be loud to know that his voice carries over thousands of miles, grace guiding the words from one corner of the globe to another and beyond.

The quiet displacement of air behind him lets him know that he has been heard. His friend has arrived.

"I suppose I should be disappointed in myself for not assuming that this is the place you'd disappeared to these last few days," Balthazar says by way of greeting, wings settling behind him as he comes to stand at Castiel's side. Castiel studies his brother for a moment, allows a warm feeling of affection for this angel overtake him in that time, because it is something he has needed and has not let himself feel since he'd begun this war, especially since he had watched Rachel die on the ground at his feet what seems like eons ago.

"I need your help, Balthazar," Castiel intones when that moment of warmth has passed, as Balthazar settles on the hood of the car beside him.

Balthazar's answer is to scoff good-naturedly, to lean back against the hood of the Charger and stare directly at the sun just because he can. "We've played this song and dance already, Cassy. Unless, of course, you don't consider the past few months I've been working with you particularly helpful."

"I am very thankful for your help these past few months," Castiel tells him honestly, and looks at his reclining brother out of the corner of his eye. "However, my next request might require more of your attention than all the others before." Pause. "Combined."

Balthazar whistles. "You know I'm not particularly good at paying attention," he jokes, though he sits up straight on top of the Charger's hood now, the easygoing smirk on his face not quite hiding the concerned lines around the edges of his vessel's eyes. It is strange sometimes, how expressive these human skins can make an angel seem.

As Castiel studies Balthazar he can feel Balthazar studying him back just as intently, waiting for another bomb to drop, another order to be given. It is nowhere near as simple as save the Titanic this time, however.

"Balthazar, I need you to assume my command," Castiel breathes eventually, and Balthazar balks at the words, physically recoils at the thought of fully shouldering Castiel's enormous burdens. His brow furrows, making his vessel seem much older than it is.

"What did those two muscle-bound ape men convince you to do this time, Cassy?" he asks hotly, looking at his brother in a simultaneously pitying and exasperated manner. "You do know you're not actually their lapdog don't you? Despite how much you let yourself be."

"I am making this decision on my own, Balthazar," Castiel assures him, tone darkening somewhat with that old righteous anger, that same entitled sensation of _no__ one __understands__ but __me_ that led him here in the first place. He bites it back when he feels it roiling up inside him, threatening to overcome reason. Nothing has made him a murderer of his own kin more than this feeling. He cannot fall prey to it again. He takes a deep, steadying breath. "I have come to the conclusion that it is the best course of action, brother."

"And you always know the best course, don't you?" Balthazar sighs as his shoulders slump in defeat, more out of fondness for Castiel than agreement with any of his hair-brained ideas. "Of course I'll do what I can to help you, Cassy, but you know I never had the patience or the same head for strategy that you did. I'll be a piss-poor leader."

Castiel feels his lip curl upwards slightly, his own fondness for this brother easing away the indignation earlier at being called Dean's lapdog. "Thank you."

Balthazar nods. "That's it then? Take over the war effort? Control the armies? Paint a giant target on myself for Raphael to concentrate on? What will you be doing in the meantime, my dear?"

Castiel glances up at the fading sunlight, the last rays bleeding away at the edges into a vast orange sky as late afternoon crawls to early evening. He takes a deep breath and places the palm of his hand against his own chest. "I will be doing everything that I can," he reassures Balthazar, and feels the tips of his fingers begin to dig into his vessel's skin.

Balthazar stares. "Cassy, what are you doing?" he asks, sliding off the Charger's hood in order to take a step towards his brother, hand outstretched but paused between action and inaction because he is unsure whether to help Castiel or to stop him.

"Stop, my dear, and think," Balthazar intones. "Whatever Winchester wants you to do, it's not worth it; the last few times you've bowed to that hairless ape's whims you exploded, Cassy. _Twice._ Tell me I don't need to remind you about that."

"This has nothing to do with what they want me to do, I promise you that," Castiel tells him, somewhat ironically. As it is, Dean is most likely to take this as yet another betrayal of his trust, another sign of Castiel going behind his back. Luckily, Castiel is also becoming inured to that, has borne the wrath of it once and will continue to do so if it means Dean is alive to be angry at him.

He takes a deep breath, feels the tips of his fingers break through flesh and dig towards bone. "It is the only way, Balthazar." He stops to smile reassuringly at his brother, despite the pain. "Don't be concerned for my sake. In my time with the Winchesters, the one thing I have learned as certainty is I must always fall before I may rise."

Balthazar still seems wary, but the statement causes him to snort slightly, while the finality in Castiel's tone causes him to back off. They have known each other for a very long time now, longer than the Earth has been alive. Castiel understands these actions to mean that Balthazar knows that he cannot stop this, only ameliorate it, should he choose to help.

And he does. He always does.

Eventually, Balthazar sighs in resignation and takes another step backwards. "Fall before you rise, is it? Well. That's just how you roll, I suppose," he murmurs, voice softening.

Castiel is not sure why, but the words seem appropriate when he hears them. "Yes," he repeats, and feels the flesh and bones of Jimmy's body give way under the tearing motion of his hand until it turns into something deeper, something far more painful. "This is just how I roll."

He tries not to scream as he rips out his grace.

* * *

"I still think it's the best choice we have, Dean," Sam mutters, even as he forces himself to comb through an obscure book of faerie lore hoping all the things that creepy little Leprechaun had told him a few months ago means that the wee folk actually do possess useful things that give them the right to be unimpressed by the angels. So far that's all a big bowl of squat and tiny Leprechaun lies, but not from lack of thorough checking on Sam's part.

"I don't like it," Dean persists without bothering to elaborate, jaw set and eyes as stubborn as ever.

Sam sighs. "Yeah but you can't explain _why_ you don't like it. I mean, it makes sense. If he can't stop Raphael now, even with his powers, how is him being temporarily human any different? At least if he falls then we'll have a legitimate chance of getting Gabriel's grace. If he keeps his and tries to stuff Gabriel's in there with it Death as good as said that he'd die."

Dean hesitates, looking squirrely on the couch, and Sam can already tell that it's one of his brother's illogical gut instincts, something that Dean seems to have inherited from Dad but that Sam had never been particularly gifted with when faced with a crisis of do-or-die. He's always been more about looking over the options and choosing which one is best based on careful reasoning. Granted, he doesn't always make the _right_ choice in that respect, but at the time the possibilities are presented to him he likes to think he picks the best one _there_.

Dean sucks at that kind of compromise. Sam stares at his brother intently and wonders if Cas has ever gotten Dean to capitulate by doing this at him _really__ hard_.

"Just forget it, Sam," Dean grunts. Sam very nearly rolls his eyes.

"Well so far, all I've found is some crazy article about how fairies take in the virility of a first born son—and I don't even know what that means— to make it so they can hide their treasure from winged goblins. I don't know if they mean angels or actual winged goblins." He sighs and tosses the book aside, giving Dean a telling look. "You got anything?"

Dean shifts again. Glares. "Nothing yet. But we'll find something eventually. Just gotta keep at it, Sammy."

Sam looks at Bobby, who just shrugs back at him helplessly. "I also got a recipe here for what looks like first born stew," he drawls, and makes everyone wince.

"Great," Sam starts, running a hand through his hair and thinking his idea is still the best idea they've had so far by about ten billion points. Why does no one listen to him? He'd only been wrong that one time, okay. _One_. You think he'd have lived it down by now, but obviously not. "So we still have nothing."

Before Dean can get on his case about all the bitching and negativity, a flutter and a thud signal the arrival of an angel.

A voice that is definitely not Castiel's signals that it is the arrival of the wrong angel.

"Oh I've got something for you here, you _stupid __pink __monkeys_."

All three hunters spring to their feet at the irate sound of Balthazar's voice, Dean jumping with particular force when he sees the slumped, bloody, and very unconscious form of Castiel draped around the other angel's shoulders.

"What'd you do to him?" Dean demands, leveling a gun at Balthazar like that will _do_ anything.

Balthazar glares. "I think the better question is, what did _you_ do to him?" the angel answers in impatient accents, though he takes the effort to rest Castiel on the couch in a surprisingly gentle motion. "I don't understand it. And from the idiotic expression on your face, it's obvious that you don't either. Which just makes it even more ridiculous."

Dean is too caught up with fretting over Castiel to answer in his own defense (or do much of anything at all), which make Sam and Bobby the only ones to notice when Balthazar starts patting around in his coat pockets for something, looking like he'd accidentally misplaced a very important item that he needs right the fuck now. Sam hopes it is not a sword or any other angel-thing-that-kills-humans-out-of-spite-while-they're-too-busy-staring-at-unconscious-Cas-like-a-tortured-_Twilight_-hero.

The lines in Balthazar's brow relax a little when he finds whatever it is he's looking for a second later, and Sam feels his mouth go inexplicably dry when the angel ends up not pulling out a sword or any other sharp killing instrument, but a small, glowing vial on a long black cord instead. The light in it almost hurts Sam's eyes to look at directly and he forces himself to squint, even as he instinctively takes a step back from it when Balthazar holds it up.

Dean swallows, finally tearing his eyes away from Castiel. He seems to have no problem looking directly at the vial. "Is that…"

"Yes, you stupid little dust mote," Balthazar snaps, voice booming righteous disdain and somehow, still sounding as human as it ever has as he clasps his hand tightly, almost protectively, around the vial. "It's exactly what you think it is. And he wanted you to have it. Insisted, actually. You know, in between all the screaming."

With that, Balthazar tosses the vial of Castiel's grace at Dean, who catches it two-handed, holding it tight in his fingers as some of the color drains from his face. Balthazar just sneers at him. "For some crazy reason, he thinks that so long as it's the three of you, you'll be able to pull off this impossible idea of yours and ride off into sunset directly afterwards."

Sam balks. "So that's it then. He really did it."

Balthazar scowls at him before straightening his jacket again, like he can't end this conversation with the stupid clay apes fast enough. He does pause however, to look down at the slumped ex-angel on the couch for a moment longer. "Call me when he wakes. Not before."

He disappears without another word.

Which is good, because Sam has no idea what else they might have talked about under these circumstances.

Across the room, he hears Dean curse Castiel's goddamned stupidity and reckless behavior under his breath the minute Balthazar disappears.

But even still, that same goddamned stupid recklessness doesn't stop his brother from crouching down and touching a hand to the side of Castiel's face.

Even from where Sam is standing he can see that Castiel's breathing is even, if a little bit shaky. Dean's is—unsurprisingly— exactly the same as the angel's.

Sam coughs and finally looks away when Dean sets his jaw and deliberately loops the cord holding Castiel's grace around his neck. When he huffs in irritation and proceeds to meticulously arrange the angel in a more comfortable position on the couch, Sam thinks it means that his plan is still on after all.

Which is great, because as Sam watches Dean shove a pile of books aside and proceed to dig around for a blanket to cover Cas up with, he can't help but think that his older brother is obviously going to be useless for any more research for the rest of the day.

Castiel's grace glows just a little bit brighter against the dark green of Dean's shirt.


	5. Chapter 4

**Four**

Ever since Lucifer's impromptu massacre at the Elysian Fields motel it has been closed, abandoned, and subsequently condemned, its formerly cheerful interior vandalized by passing delinquents, its floors dirtied by squatters and other transients that had taken their chances within its confines before the overall bad vibes of what had transpired inside threatened to overwhelm them, sending them scurrying back into the safety of the open night. The locals avoid driving past the shabby sign after dark now, just in case, all the while silently mourning the loss of the hotel's amazing kitchen, particularly the seven kinds of pie and two kinds of bread that used to be baked there fresh, daily.

The adults living in the surrounding area try not to talk about what had happened there but the children still weave stories about it even today, younger kids building on older kids' overblown, sensationalized renditions of the tale about all the _bodies_ that had been found inside the hotel one morning after a freak rain storm. They whisper about the dead people and the scorched wingmarks on the lobby floor, listening with wide eyes to the crazy account of that night from Old Man Peterson, who had worked the gas station down the street from the motel before he'd gone nuts. Haggard and worn, he regales the town's children about how he'd been there that night, about how he had witnessed people eating people, raw and some still half alive. He sobs and shudders to himself, about the explosions of fire and light that meant the world would burn. He can't remember all the details, he says shakily, but he thinks it had been the work of the devil himself and that his essence still lingers in the motel, even so long after the fact. The children sometimes ask him to tell them what the devil had looked like but don't often get the chance to hear, because Old Man Peterson's sad-eyed daughter usually finds him on the porch around then, and quickly takes him back inside the house so that he is no longer the town spectacle, the crazy, drunken old man who spins wild tales about Hell and damnation.

Universally, it is acknowledged that the owners of the Elysian Fields motel and many of its employees had been brutally murdered by nameless, faceless transients on that rainy spring night what seems a lifetime ago. To the townsfolk, it is a sad truth of the state of the nation in this day and age, when old fashioned hospitality and small town values are taken advantage of by drifters and lunatics and outsiders alike. The place where they live seems less open that in used to be because of that, much more wary and suspicious.

Mostly, the locals miss the pie and the sense of peace they used to have, driving up and down the freeway and knowing the town where they raised their children was safe.

And so this is the place that Sam, Dean, and Castiel are taken to, the three of them deposited right in front of the boarded doors to the lobby of the Elysian Fields in the rush of air that Balthazar's wings create. The sudden disturbance to the scene's equilibrium sends trash fluttering and vermin scurrying to the safety of moldy hiding places. What they see before them here is an echo of what had greeted them back in town, when they had checked in at the new, slightly less friendly looking Aegean Sea motel. This is no longer a place that wishes to see strangers, just as the shell of the Elysian Fields motel can no longer support anything but rats and roaches.

"Love what they've done with the place," Dean mutters as he and Sam blink until their eyes get used to the dark. He stares at a faded red splatter on the wall that might be blood, but that he hopes is just weather-worn graffiti.

"Lucifer did always have a penchant for decorating things in a certain personal style," Balthazar whistles humorlessly, as Castiel wordlessly strides forward and tries to pull the boards off of the front of the door. He struggles with it of course, looking frustrated at the reminder of how weak he has become for the time being, when just a day ago, he could have yanked these tiny pieces of dead wood from the entrance with a thought.

Sam and Dean share a helpless look as he does this while Balthazar mutters under his breath and pushes past the two dawdling idiot monkeys to help. The sooner this crazy mission is dealt with, the sooner Castiel can return to where he belongs and end this ridiculous war. Balthazar, while considered a commanding and convincing personality in certain lights, is no war leader. He has never had the patience or the head for leading others. Castiel, while quiet and friendly and devout, definitely has an edge of something more to him now, after the past few years apart from the Host on Earth. Balthazar sees something inside of his brother that goes beyond just _brother,_but that also tells him to _obey_ and _have __faith._It has been a long time since he has felt this way about anyone. Balthazar surmises it is not since he had last felt the presence of his Father.

Even as puny and grotesque as Castiel is now—fallen, his grace thinks, like Lucifer—Balthazar loves him, and so hopes that he does not lose this brother as he had God, as he had Lucifer, Gabriel, Uriel, Rachel. Even if he does not agree with this plan, he will help because Castiel asked.

Absently, as he yanks the boards off with a crunch of splintering wood and the screech of breaking nails, he wonders if what he is feeling for his fallen brother now is exactly how Castiel feels when faced with whatever inexplicable power it is that ties him to Dean Winchester's will.

But there is not time to dwell on these thoughts, because the minute the door is opened he feels it, the faint, familiar tingle of burned grace; to an angel it is the scent of death, the same as rotting flesh is to humans. He winces and takes a step backwards as an overwhelming sense of sadness overcomes him. This had been his brother's last stand. This is where Gabriel— a magnificent and loving brother even for all the time he had abandoned them—had died. The archangel, millennia old, had, like Castiel, given up eternity for humanity.

Balthazar doesn't understand it, but then again, he has never particularly tried to. He is okay with that. All he wants is to live now. All he wants is for Castiel to live.

Castiel is the first to step through the entryway.

Dean moves to follow, giving Balthazar a dubious look when the angel steps a little bit into his way to preclude his entrance. "You'll have to use Gabriel's ashes to bind his grace to Cassy's in order to find the threads of whatever is left of him out there."

The elder Winchester grows immediately defensive at Balthazar's condescending tone. "Yeah, okay. Cas knows what he's doing. We'll handle it."

Balthazar cocks and eyebrow at this proud, stupid human. "Will you?" Part of him wants to reach out and simply smash Dean Winchester, like one would swat an annoying bug that's been buzzing around one's ear. He refrains though, because right now, Dean Winchester is holding the most important thing in the universe.

"I'll marshal Castiel's forces for as long as I can to keep Raphael at bay, but you idiots are on your own for Crowley and the demons. Word is he's put a hit out on the lot of you after Cassy tried to raze him to the ground right after you asked him if you two crazy lovebirds could run away together." Balthazar's mouth purses into a tight line at the memory of Castiel's duplicity, the things his brother had admitted to him when he'd returned to the front lines after his attempts to destroy Crowley and his little workshop of horrors. He'd been slightly bloody, a little bruised, but mostly ruffled and repentant. Balthazar remembers how he'd smelled like corruption.

Dean just snorts at Balthazar, not a shred of respect or fear for the angels in the man. "Oh we'll handle Crowley," he growls, eyes glinting with feelings that Balthazar can actually get behind for once. It doesn't necessarily mean that Balthazar thinks the stupid ape can do it, but the sentiment behind it is at least something.

Balthazar almost says so out loud, but that is when Castiel pokes his head back out, looking rumpled and irate and vaguely suspicious. "Is there a problem?" he intones, glancing between Balthazar and Dean as they scowl at each other in the doorway like two starving dogs fighting over a single, dirty bone.

Balthazar is the first to take a step back, to ease the frown lines around his face back into an easy smile at his brother. "No, no problem, Cassy," he says warmly, and gallantly gestures Dean through first. "I was just telling your boy here that I'd best be getting back to the command post. Seems several small fires have already broken out in your absence, you see."

Castiel's brow furrows. "Are they very serious?"

"Little things in the grand scheme, Cassy. Don't worry your pretty head about it," Balthazar lies gently, before turning to go. He does however, stop to catch Dean's arm first, as the human moves to walk past him.

Dean balks, naturally, but Balthazar's grip on his arm is immobile. "Just know," he murmurs with all the menace of a demon and all the certainty of an angel, "that you hold the greatest remaining treasure in all creation."

Dean just looks confused at that, which just _figures_. Balthazar gives Castiel's grace a brief glance as it sits, tiny and glowing and warm against the human's chest. "Try to take care of it."

He releases Dean and disappears before the human can say anything else.

And as he flies, Balthazar can't help but hope that those idiots will somehow defy the odds again and make this work.

Though chances are he'll be long dead before he gets to see it through either way.

* * *

Dean scowls at Balthazar's abrupt departure and glances over at Cas, his hand absently grasping the black length of cord around his neck that Castiel's grace hangs from. It's not like he doesn't already know; this is Cas's mojo here. He doesn't need Balthazar's British accent of doom growling death and destruction in his ear to understand how important it is. He can fucking handle it, okay?

"Dean?" Sam asks after a moment, clearing his throat. "Everything okay, man?"

"Yeah. Fine. I hate that douche," Dean mutters back, and stomps towards the door, letting his hand fall from the cord when he spies Castiel watching him all squinty-eyed and careful. He coughs and stands up straighter. "So let's get this show on the road, huh? We got an archangel to beat up."

"It is more likely that we will have to kill him," Castiel corrects quietly from the door, voice mostly cold-hard-fact but tinged with regret all the same. The former angel turns and disappears into the lobby.

Sam and Dean share a look and follow.

It takes some digging after that but eventually they find the charred outline of a wing and work to clear the floor from there; Dean thinks it may be his imagination, but the first stroke of his finger against the burned lines makes the grace around his neck jump and flare in a bright burst of silent grief. It is so jarring that he freezes and just stares at the markings on the ground for a second, because he can't breathe.

Sam taps him impatiently and hands him his backpack, inside of which are the components Castiel said would bind his grace to Gabriel's essence in order to help them locate the pieces from wherever they may have been scattered by the winds.

"With my grace contained as it is, this spell will only be able to help it locate the shards when they are close by," Castiel had explained on the first night he'd been conscious after falling without so much as a by-your-leave in the scrap yard.

Dean is still pissed about that by the way, but Cas is determined to do this with or without any help, and even Dean is quick enough on the uptake to know that's the exact reason they got here in the first place. At least this time the stupid (former) angel decided to tell him about what he was planning to do first. At least this time he's letting them come along.

The betrayal stings again, the blatant way Cas had disregarded his express wishes. But it's not as bad as the first time. Dean wonders if this is him getting used to it, or something.

Now the angel is bustling around the outline like he's at a crime scene on one of those douchy procedural TV shows, preparing ingredients in a big mixing bowl and concentrating very hard on getting it just right. "The seven components with which my father created all angels are faith, obedience, wrath, mercy, devotion, truth , and love," Castiel explains absently as he works, like the sound of his own voice helps him focus on the task at hand and not the fact that he might itch or ache or hunger or thirst. "We will have to research, as it is, to find signs of those components manifesting on the earthly plane. Once our research brings us close enough, my grace should be able to determine whether it is indeed a piece of Gabriel." He hefts one of Bobby's good blood-sacrifice knives.

Dean frowns as he watches Castiel cut into his own hand with it, perhaps a little more deeply than necessary, like he apparently still forgets that he's _human_ right now. "Jesus, Cas," he mutters, and feels the grace around his neck pulse almost sympathetically. "Go easy on the bloodletting, will you?"

Castiel winces as the blood pools in his palm but doesn't say anything, just squeezing the wound into the spell ingredients before gesturing to Dean for the vial of his grace. Dean reluctantly pulls the cord over his head and gives it to the fallen angel, eyes still on the bleeding wound on Cas's hand as he begins to chant something that sounds more like an onomatopoeia of a Sam Winchester being thrown down a flight of stairs (and Dean's heard that plenty enough to know) than it sounds like ancient angel magic.

After about ten minutes of this and nothing happening, while Dean is busy shifting his weight from foot to foot and debating whether or not to call shenanigans on the whole thing, there is a sudden spark of light, like watching a fuse catch fire from the blood in Cas's bowl and igniting everything inside of it. From there, a small puff of fragrant smoke rises up to envelop the vial of grace in a way that reminds Dean of every time he's had to drive to Los Angeles over the mountains and seen the thick fog of greasy air that seems to always be there, choking the life out of what would otherwise be some beautiful California scenery.

Once the cloud dissipates Castiel hands the grace back to Dean, who instinctively puts it on again, tucking it into his shirt like he can protect it somehow, though he isn't sure why he ought to.

Cas doesn't seem to notice however, still making those ridiculous murmuring sounds as he reaches down to smear blood over the outline of Gabriel's wing, sending up another spark, another cloud of swirling smoke. Dean feels his hand wrap around Cas's grace when it gives a strange lurch that he can practically feel against his chest, like it's protesting being tied down to something else, like it wants to burrow closer to Dean and away from whatever Cas is doing to it by binding it to Gabriel's burned out remains.

And then, just like that, the cloud dissipates as if it was never there. The feeling of unease around Cas's grace seems to go with it and Dean finds himself taking a breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding. Castiel quietly puts the bowl down and bows his head over Gabriel's final resting place.

"Relax, man, he's fine," Sam murmurs at Dean's side, giving his brother what must be his epic look of brotherly concern. "This is a good idea."

Dean grunts noncommittally as Castiel slowly rises to his feet, still dripping blood from his hand. He turns to regard the brothers carefully, still somehow otherworldly even as a fine sheen of sweat causes his hair to stick to his forehead. His skin looks a little pale in the dim light ghosting in through the cracks between the hotel's boarded up windows.

"Cas?" Dean asks, cautiously. "We all set?"

"I believe so," Cas breathes back, and tries to straighten slightly. "Though I think…"

Dean feels it the moment that Castiel's knees give out through the slight twinge of the grace around his neck, like a tinny, scraping sound against the inside of his insides that no words can accurately describe.

He does manage to catch Cas before he hits the ground though. Demands, "Cas? Cas? What the hell?"

Dean looks at Sam, who is kind of gaping in a helpless sort of way as Dean puts the back of his hand in front of the former angel's face to see if he's breathing (for the _second__ goddamn__ time_ in so many days, he might add). Luckily there is breath there, tiny, tired sounding puffs of air against Dean's skin as he struggles to keep them both upright one-handed. "Sam!"

Sam shrugs helplessly, like he's not sure what his brother wants him to do given the circumstances. "He didn't bleed that much, did he?" he asks.

Dean looks down at Cas's hand, which is still oozing slightly, but no longer a crime scene waiting to happen. He shakes his head. "No. But the idiot could have gone easier all the same," he reports, irritated.

"Maybe ancient angel binding magic is tiring for humans or something," Sam offers with that small frowny vee-shaped vein in his forehead protruding just enough to mean that he still gives a damn about Cas despite all the evidence to the contrary. He even moves to help Dean support the unconscious fallen angel from his other side.

But Sam just gets a scowl and a toss of a chin from his brother for his efforts though, as Dean barks, "Get the bags," gruffly to him while dipping down a little and scooping Cas's legs up off the ground so he isn't half-dragging the poor guy. Some may call it a princess carry. Dean calls it not slinging the bleeding angel that got blown up twice for him around like a sack of manure.

"Motel?" Sam asks after he's gathered up the supplies, looking around dubiously.

"Motel," Dean answers, like it should be the most obvious thing in the world.

Sam's eyebrows dart up, like he's waiting for Dean to catch up to him on something.

Dean frowns. He does catch up eventually though. And says, "Shit," once he does.

"Yeah," Sam echoes, though somehow manages to seem a little smug about it at the same time. He reaches out to clamp a monster sized hand on Dean's shoulder as he precedes his brother and his brother's unconscious 160 pound armload back outside.

It is at that moment that Dean is full of regrets over the fact that he'd let Balthazar zap them here.

Which is exactly the moment when Castiel chooses to rest his head against Dean's chest and murmur something incoherent. His oozing hand swipes a trail of blood across Dean's shoulder.

Dean grits his teeth and thinks it's going to be a long goddamned walk back to the motel.


	6. Chapter 5

**Five**

They end up getting Cas back to the motel in one piece without drawing _too_ much unwanted attention from the town's already distrusting inhabitants by feigning smiles and shrugging helplessly to any overly attentive or suspicious strangers while declaring, '_alcoholism __is __in __the __guy__'__s __genetics__'_ or '_our __friend__'__s__ got __a__ bad __case __of __the __narcolepsy, __what__'__re __you __gonna __do?_' in turns.

Once back in the safety of their room, the feigned smiles fade and Dean spends the rest of the night and the rest of his energy thereafter muttering under his breath and stitching the former angel up while Sam sits in a corner of the room doing research on anything that sounds like it might be a shard of archangel grace.

Sam knows that if he doesn't do it, it probably won't get done in time (if at all), mostly because Dean is going to be completely useless until Cas wakes up, and then, once Cas does wake up, Dean will _continue_ to be useless, except he'll also be busy yelling and fussing over Cas about the necessity of being less of a secretive stubborn moron while he makes the former angel eat a sandwich or something. It's the first part of the necessary post-evil lying-in that usually comes with the massive amounts of blood loss, general disorientation, and Dean's growled accusations and secret manful tears. Sam secretly calls it chapter one of the Winchester redemptive process: get fucked up and then get nursed back to health by the person who loves you most but who also doesn't necessarily approve of your life choices up until this point.

Sam knows this part of the routine by heart now at least, mostly because he might have been on the receiving end of the process more than once.

Which also gives Sam a particular kind of firsthand insight on the whole evil-not-evil debate. Enough, at least, that it has part of him waiting for the other shoe to drop, half of him expecting Cas to fall off the don't-be-evil-anymore wagon and the other half of him really hoping the worst is over on that front. Call it a manifestation of his own self-loathing or something, because his own greatest fear is—and will probably always be— that one day _he__'__ll_ fall off the wagon in exactly the same way, because his good intentions always seem to end up screwing them over somehow. He hopes things work out—he will always have a part of him that wants to be able to hope— and even more than that, he will pray that he'll be able to stop looking sideways at Cas for his role in the past year's events someday. But at the same time, Sam doesn't particularly _expect _things to go in their favor, despite the odds.

He's not like Dean in that respect, he supposes.

For now though, all he can do is sit behind the laptop and narrow his search parameters from the day Gabriel died up until today. Even still, the search parameters for things like "truth" and "wrath" are a little bit vague, and Google keeps slapping him with heaps of useless information and more pornography than he would have expected considering the fact that the characteristics that make up angels seem to be more virtuous than not. People are gross that way, he suspects. He forces himself to keep trucking forward.

He works up until he can't keep his eyes open on his own anymore, and then, with a single nod at Dean, announces that he's going to hit the sack because it's three in the morning.

Dean wordlessly nods back and doesn't move from his chair beside the door.

* * *

Several hours and one really annoying trill of birdsong later, Sam wakes up to find Dean at pretty much the exact same spot he'd left him, except with coffee and a couple of stale-looking Danishes on the table now, most likely gathered from what must have been their motel's free continental breakfast. Cas is still pretty much out like a light, breathing even, lines of his face relaxed, and Sam decides against saying anything about Dean being the one to do the creepy watching-someone-sleep thing that he'd complained about Cas pulling on _him_ all those years ago. Instead Sam gets up and flips his computer on again, so he can get right to work while they wait for Sleeping Beauty to stir.

Which is why, by the time Cas groans and his eyes flutter open just after lunchtime, Sam thinks he might have found something.

Of course, given that Cas has just woken up, Dean could give two shits about what Sam has found, and Sam really just wants to roll his eyes because sometimes (all the time) being the third wheel to whatever epic strangeness is going on between his brother and Castiel makes him wish his soul wasn't intact anymore just so he wouldn't feel like some sort of unwilling peeper into the world that is them.

"Cas?" Dean murmurs, and scrambles from the other bed to the angel's side.

"Nnngh," Cas manages back, very articulately. He blinks a few more times, owlishly, and looks down in confusion at his hand, which is probably throbbing right about now.

Dean gets him water, some painkillers, and the extra sandwich Sam had gone out to get two hours ago that is probably not a good idea to eat anymore. Not because it's gone bad or anything (Sam suspects Arby's food doesn't actually go bad so much as it has a half-life), but mostly because all the oil must have coagulated by now to create a clear, stiff sheen of fat over the meat and cheese, thus rendering it impossible to chew.

Dean seems to realize this a second later and discards the sandwich on the nightstand. He crouches next to Castiel and watches the angel down his water and his pills like a hawk. When he thinks the Cas has had enough, he eases the glass away and then furrows his brow, clearly preparing for either a speech or an accusation, possibly both. Sam's been there, done that.

"Well?" Dean grunts, and Sam figures that's a both if he's ever heard one.

Castiel looks confused.

Dean scowls. "What the hell was that? You didn't say you were going to pass out, man."

"I did not know I was going to pass out," Cas answers, in all fairness.

Dean's frown deepens. That obviously hadn't been the answer he'd been wanting. Though what answer he _had_ wanted Sam has no idea. He never did, in situations like this one.

Cas frowns back because he obviously doesn't know why Dean is frowning. Sam thinks this is a vicious cycle of UST or something. He clears his throat.

Both sets of eyes are immediately on him. "What?" Dean asks, still sounding incredibly irate. Cas just continues to look confused.

Sam fights the urge to roll his eyes because this is a woefully familiar song and dance, despite everything. Maybe he should be relieved that even after all the stuff that's changed, some things still remain intact through it all in the end. "I think I found something," he says instead of dwell on that, and pulls up a link to an online article from a newspaper in Georgia. "Apparently, there's a courtroom where several murderers have all accidentally confessed to their crimes after taking the stand."

Dean blinks. "So, what, you think archangel grace is making them feel guilty?"

Sam shrugs. "Truthful, at least." He scrolls through the article again. "According to this article, everyone who takes the stand feels an inexplicable urge to speak honestly about…well, everything, particularly things they feel guilty about, or I guess, have regrets over? Apparently one of the witnesses even blurted that she'd once taken ecstasy back in college and thinks it really messed her up, which hadn't been relevant to the case, though it did ruin her credibility as a witness. Defense might have gotten a rapist off based on that if the guy hadn't taken the stand after her and confessed to it right off the bat."

"Is this sort of behavior peculiar in a courtroom?" Castiel asks.

Sam sighs. Dean does too, but it sounds way more indulgent than Sam's. "Yeah, Cas. That's weird." He turns to Sam. "But do you think it's weird enough to be bits of archangel dust?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't see anything else _as_ weird so far."

Dean eyes Castiel dubiously, like he's not sure the angel will survive a two day drive to Georgia cramped in the backseat of the car. "Cas? Feeling any Gabe tingles in your Spidey sense?"

Castiel doesn't even bother asking what the heck that means, which, Sam supposes, means the guy is learning. "I will have to be closer to determine whether it is grace affecting these people, but as it is our only lead thus far, I don't see the harm in investigating further."

Dean sighs. "I fucking hate Georgia in the summer," he declares. Sam figures this means they're heading out just as soon as Cas can stay vertical on his own again.

"Sam," Dean barks in the meantime, and gestures to the door with his chin as he takes up his perch on the second bed again. "Go get Cas another sandwich, will you?" It is obvious he has put himself on fallen angel watch for the rest of the night.

Sam closes his laptop and sincerely hopes Cas is vertical again real soon.

Georgia is already muggy enough at the beginning of May to let Dean know it's going to be another one of those miserable summers in the south, the kind that, as a kid, had suffocated him as he'd sat in abandoned houses or motel rooms with crappy (or no) air conditioning, waiting for Dad to show up again while he placated a whining and miserable Sam as best he could by giving him the spot closest to the wall unit or scraping together the rest of their cash to dash out to a vending machine for a cold soda.

Cas is reminding him a lot of that young, miserable Sam right now, as he gets his first ever taste of a swampy southern summer decked out in full humanity. He sweats and glares and generally looks like the most overgrown, miserable puppy in a suit ever. Press passes hang from around all of their necks, a nice-looking camera poised in Sam's hand as they fake through their credentials and their story about how they're here to write an article about the miracle chair that everyone's been so excited about for the past two plus years.

So far, they've heard testimonies from judges and read statements by witnesses that say it's some sort of miracle stand, that God is passing judgment down from above and forcing sinners to confess their crimes. Some jurors even claim they'd seen glowing light emanating from the stand as criminals stood to speak the truth of their deeds.

"Well," a shy bailiff—who somehow manages to dwarf Sam with his sheer size— begins during their official tour of the courthouse, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully, "First time it happened, we all thought it was a fluke or something. This case had been in trial for 'bout four years 'n suddenly went all up when the defendant just blurted out exactly what he'd done. Even told the judge where the bodies could be found, 'n how he just hadn't been able to stand the sight of those poor young ladies' showing off all that flesh and still purporting to be educated college women. It was kinda disturbing, but I think he felt better after he said everything. Laid it all out in the open for God to judge, you know?"

Dean blinks when he feels Sam's elbow suddenly in his ribcage.

"Er, right. Cathartic, or something," Dean answers, and forces himself to look the bailiff in the eyes instead of staring at the space behind his massive frame, where Cas is examining the door to the courtroom like his Spidey senses _are_going crazy. From where it rests in the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket, Dean can feel Cas's grace give a little tug in tandem with Cas's crazy door gazing, and Dean supposes that means there's a piece of Gabriel on that witness stand after all.

The bailiff, as if sensing everyone's impatience, sheepishly turns to open the door and usher them inside, the courtroom currently empty and silent with most everyone gone for the weekend.

Castiel's brow furrows while Dean feels a strange electric jolt in his chest once they step inside the room itself. The angel is compelled forward suddenly, pushing past the bailiff and heading in a straight line directly to the stand. Sam is the one who smiles awkwardly at the bailiff on Cas's behalf and shrugs in a helpless kind of way at the former angel's antics. Dean shoots a look over his shoulder that demands that Sam distract the bailiff by asking more questions, while Dean makes his way to Cas's side.

"It must be here," the angel says, kind of needlessly.

Dean blinks, hand absently going up to brush over the vial of grace that is buzzing tensely under his shirt. "You sure?" he asks anyway, just because.

"Though I cannot feel it myself, my grace is visible through your clothing now," Castiel answers flatly, and when Dean looks down at his chest he can see it, like someone had actually left a flashlight on inside his button up. "Through the spell, it can recognize it as Gabriel's grace now that we are close enough to the piece."

"Well, okay then," Dean whispers back, feeling kind of relieved that this had gone so easily, all things considered. "Pry it loose and let's get out of here. Sam's distracting Bruce Banner over there, which means we need to finish before he decides to get angry and Hulk out."

Castiel frowns. "I'm…not sure how to get it loose," he admits after a moment, and reaches out, touching his hand tentatively to the woodwork. Dean feels the grace in his pocket flare a little bit at that, but nothing happens beyond that, except Castiel getting a frustrated look on his face. "It is certain that the shard is here, but I cannot simply take it out."

Dean is incredulous. "Then _what_?" he hisses under his breath. "Don't tell me we gotta steal the stand, Cas. I'm not stealing the whole fucking witness stand." Sure, Winchesters are great at stealing things, but not _that_ great. That's some fucking David Copperfield level shit, and Dean has no lovely assistant in a short skirt to distract the guards with. Just Sam. Who stopped looking cute in skirts by the time he was four.

Castiel looks at him at that moment like he's the stupidest thing in the world. Dean would be affronted, but Cas somehow manages to do it like Dean is also an enormous and interesting mystery all at the same time, which makes him slightly less affronted, for whatever reason. "Of course we cannot take the stand, Dean," he murmurs. "It would not fit in the car."

A beat.

"So, what? We ask it to come out nicely?" Dean drawls, after a moment of the two of them just kind of looking at each other.

Castiel shakes his head. "I do not think it will respond to that. This is the part of grace that is used for revelation, to announce the word of God and the ineffable truth of His will. From what information we have gleaned from the testimonies, and given the fact that this is where the shard chose to settle of all places, I suspect that after the oath is taken, the grace is activated by a person's words of promise to speak only truth in the eyes of God."

Dean tries to keep focused on what Cas is saying while Sam is making increasingly more and more deliberate gestures for the two of them to hurry up while he continues to pretend to be interested in The bailiff's anecdotes about how so many defense attorneys are afraid of this room that whenever they find they've been assigned here, they _beg_ their clients to take pleas to save them the embarrassment of an on-stand confession.

Dean looks back at Cas, who is still staring at the woodwork. "Okay, so we lure it out by swearing to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help us God or whatever, and then _what_? How do we yank this bitch out?"

Cas tilts his head thoughtfully. "Hmmm."

Dean wants to pull hair. "Can't you just suck it up, like Anna did with hers?"

Cas looks vaguely bemused. "That grace was her own and was innately drawn to the remnants of it that existed—however faintly—in her mortal form. This is not my grace; I have no sway over it in that manner."

Dean eyes the stand. "Okay so from what we've heard, it activates when people swear to tell the truth in front of everyone and God, right? And some people say they saw it glowing. That's got to be the intensity level being dialed up somehow, right?"

Cas considers his wording. "In all likelihood," he agrees, eventually.

Dean thinks some more. "So once we can see it glow, you think you can force it to go into you?" He pauses here, swallowing. "I mean, it's just energy right? Like those souls you used as batteries. They weren't yours either, but you forced them into the socket anyway."

He does not bother to hide the fact that he finds the whole idea of that disgusting and wrong as hell as he says it. He also does not miss the slight wince of Castiel's shoulders at the reminder of his crimes.

"I suppose, once it is strong enough to guide, I could attempt to…overpower its ties to its current state," Castiel concedes after a moment.

Then something horrible occurs to Dean. "You won't explode or anything if you do that, will you? Death said you might explode."

Castiel is silent for a moment. "Death said it was possible, but less probable if I did not already have my own grace filling that void. I do not, so my chances have improved."

Dean "Okay so…"

He gets cut off by a massive hand landing on his shoulder. It is not Sam's.

"Sorry, Mr. Plant, but we're about to close up now, and I need to get you out of here," the bailiff tells him, and Dean manages to shove back the instinctive reaction to punch any stranger that touches him without his permission. He forces a personable smile instead.

"Right. Of course. Um, say," he pauses to look at the man's nametag, "Gus. Would it be possible to give us like, five minutes alone in here? I need some shots with the photographer, and I really just… uh, soak up the atmosphere better if I can sit in it in silence. By myself." Pause. Backtrack. "With my partner by myself. We've worked together so long it's like we're one person."

"In two separate bodies. My partner is using simile." Castiel adds, trying to be helpful but somehow making everything _so__awkward._

The bailiff looks regretful. "No can do, sir. I'm not allowed to let anyone just wander around the courthouse by themselves unless they work here."

"Yeah, but couldn't you just…"

Gus the giant bailiff crosses his arms. And massive arms they are indeed. "It's against the rules," he says, and suddenly seems way scarier than he had been five minutes ago, when he'd been shyly talking to the press and not doing his job.

Apparently when he's working, he does his job very well. Dean can appreciate that.

"Right. Okay then. We're out of here. Thanks so much for your time, Gus," Sam says hastily, and practically pulls both Dean and Castiel towards the door again.

Castiel looks confused. "But we need to get the…"

"_Tonight_," Dean grunts, as Gus follows them out and locks the door tight behind them.

"Made an imprint of the key when he wasn't looking," Sam adds once they're on the courthouse steps again. He gestures down to a piece of soft clay in his hands, obviously pressed into Gus the bailiff's key while Dean and Cas had been busy examining the stand.

Dean thinks Sam is awesome sometimes.

* * *

"Wait, wait, wait, so you already _found_ the shard but you don't actually know how to _get_ it?" Sam asks incredulously as they drive back towards their motel so they can look up the shadiest locksmith possible to make them a copy of the key to the courtroom.

"We have a theory," Dean answers him vaguely. "We you know, swear to tell the truth, make the thing glow, and Cas uh… Cas takes the glowy bits."

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "Witness testimony said it only glowed once in a while," Sam points out. "Not for all the cases. But obviously everyone is sworn in for the cases, so how do you plan on guaranteeing that this will be one of the glowy situations and not one of the regular situations?" Pause. Frown. He realizes suddenly that this is not their main concern by a long shot. "Dude," he begins, around a deep breath. "Cas is basically human right now. How can he get the shard if we can't get it either?"

"Hey, Death said that sometimes the shards can stick to humans," Dean points out. Then furrows his brow. "Maybe we should have asked him how to make that work."

Sam sighs. "Okay, look." He starts to dig through his myriad print outs from the research he'd done in the days prior to arriving in Georgia. "On the day Gabriel died…or, the day after, I guess I should say, there was apparently a big murder trial happening in that courtroom, according to records. Like, a big cover up sort of thing involving the mayor and drugs and a couple of dead hookers. There was this incredible paper trail of bribes and corruption and cover-ups associated with it."

"Classy," Dean comments, as he turns onto the seedy street that will take them back to their cheap, nondescript motel.

"So we obviously need to figure out _why_ it decided to settle there if we want to get it out, right?" Sam theorizes, sounding downright academic. "What caused it to go to a place where so many anti-truths were going on?" He sits back and glances between the articles in either hand. "I mean, the morning after Gabriel died, apparently one of the witnesses, a woman who'd been beaten within an inch of her life and whose family was threatened, suddenly came forward and told the truth. Showed the DA evidence that she'd been hiding and blew it wide open."

"Point, Sam?" Dean asks, though he looks thoroughly disturbed by the reminder of what people can do all on their own, without the help of Heaven or Hell as an excuse.

"What I'm saying," Sam continues, patiently, "is do we think the truth shard settled here because there was a complete lack of it before—even though people swore they'd tell it in God's name—or do we think that it's because this woman decided to come forward despite what it might mean for her and her family? That she had an abundance of truth in her?"

Dean blinks, but thankfully, Castiel looks downright illuminated. "We must determine whether the shards land in a location because that location has a dearth or a surplus of the qualities embodied by the shard," Castiel breathes.

"What?" Dean asks, and starts to look impatient as they pull into the motel parking lot.

Sam starts to gather his papers up in order again. "It means if we figure out what causes a shard to go to a place, we can figure out how to get it out again," the younger Winchester says plainly. "If the shard went to that courtroom because there wasn't enough truth there in the first place, then we go in there and start spouting lies at it until it gets more drawn to us than it does to the stand."

"And if it goes because there'd been lots of truth thanks to that witness, we tell it more truth than it can handle until we can grab it," Dean finally realizes, catching up in one quick leap.

"Precisely," Castiel acknowledges, with a fondly indulgent smile at seeing Dean's delight in finally getting all the nerd speak that had been bombarding him the entire drive back.

Sam catches his own reflection in the Impala's window and realizes that he's making the exact same sort of face at his brother too, and wonders if the fact that he and Cas are so alike sometimes should scare him or not.

That is the moment, of course, when Dean gets out of the car and asks, perfectly reasonably, "So how the hell are we supposed to figure out which one it is?"

It's as good a question as any.

* * *

Sam figures it out at the locksmith's place, while waiting for a big-boned dude in a man-mumu to make them their key after taking an extra fifty bucks to immediately forget their faces and what he'd done for them.

Dean knows he always makes fun of his brother for being a nerd, but it's in a completely proud and confounded way that he does it, appreciative of Sam's inherent ability to see patterns and put together seemingly useless information to form a complete picture of something without question or doubt. Dean is pretty sure he would have made a damn fine lawyer if he'd gotten the chance. If things had been different.

But they aren't, and if Sam's talent is the intellectual kind, then Dean's is the kind that has an infinite ability to adapt and deal with whatever hand they have. Sam's the fact expert. Dean's the reality expert. The two aren't always the same.

"Okay, so… I found a pattern," Sam announces while Dean peruses the locksmith's store, watching Cas as the former angel peruses the small stand of candies by the register, clearly puzzling over why a store that makes copies of keys would attempt to sell sweets manufactured for children at the same time.

Cas immediately looks up from trying to discern what, exactly, a Push Pop is when he hears Sam's voice. "And?"

"Truth," Sam says, with a small smile, like his faith in humanity has been at least partially restored by this discovery. "It was drawn to a place that has an abundance of truth to tell. So that woman coming forward was her own choice, not a symptom of the shard. She must have been the thing that initially attracted the truth shard to the stand in the first place and everything after that is a result of it settling there. And it looks like the more truth a person has to reveal, the more the grace reacts to it."

"How can you be certain?" Castiel cross-examines, understandably.

Sam, delighting in the fact that he gets to back up his theories with evidence, grabs a handful of articles and presents them to the angel. "The day she took the stand, there was an initial burst of light _during_ her testimony that witnesses thought was a power surge. So if it happened during and not _before_, then it must have been attracted to the strength of the truth in her."

Sam pauses to go through another folder of papers. "But from then on, it kind of operates in a way that induces people to tell the truth based on how much they seem to be hiding."

Castiel cocks his head to the side. "How so?" he asks.

"Remember the glowing that the witnesses had been talking about seeing on some occasions in the courtroom?" Sam prompts, while Dean listens with one ear and continues to keep an eye out for the locksmith or any cops or trouble in general. "Apparently it only happened in a handful of really big cases. One involving murder and drug and gun trafficking for an organized crime family. The second time it happened was during a case involving the kidnapping and repeated rape of a minor who was related by blood to the defendant. The third time it happened, it was during a case for a serial killer who had murdered several boys under the age of sixteen who reminded her of her dead son. But for the other cases, like a couple of DUIs, a robbery, indecent exposure, grand theft auto… no one reported seeing any sort of glowing."

Castiel doesn't seem to understand, which saves Dean the trouble of having to ask.

"The more a person had to hide, the bigger the lies they'd told up to that point, the more stuff they ended up revealing on the stand when the shard was influencing them," Sam explains. "And the more truths they had to reveal, the more the stand acted up in a visible way."

Dean blinks. "So, this grace likes eating bigger, better truths or something?"

Sam nods. "I wouldn't put it that way exactly, but in a nutshell. Apparently the more you've tried to hide before taking the stand, the more strongly the grace will manifest itself as you reveal those truths. I'm guessing maybe you can draw it out that way, until you're uh, more attractive to it than where it is now?"

Dean snorts and turns to Cas. "Well, Cas? If that's the case, looks like getting it to go all glowy is on you."

Cas winces slightly before going back to look at the Push Pops. Dean almost feels like a dick, but luckily the seedy locksmith returns just in time to distract him from the feelings.

* * *

Breaking in to the courtroom late that night turns out to be relatively easy, though upon their first visit to this place during the day, Castiel had initially thought that it would be the type of establishment that is always heavily guarded. Dean grins at him as he closes the door behind them and simply says, "Not every day someone tries to break _in_ to a courtroom," and pockets the key they had gotten earlier in the evening.

Sam is currently tailing the lone night watchman with instructions to text Dean should he decide to head this way, and apparently Bobby can do interesting things with computers and security systems and cameras given the appropriate amount of time to prepare them.

Which leaves Castiel and Dean to draw out and trap the truth shard before they are discovered.

"Okay. Five minutes, Cas," Dean murmurs as they approach the stand in the dark. "If uh, if anything starts to feel weird or explodey, abort, you got it?"

Castiel doesn't bother explaining to Dean that there is no in between state from whole to exploded and thus there can be no time for warning someone or aborting that sort of thing. But he knows that if he says something obtuse like that to the human he will just get a scowl and some muttered insults in reply, so instead of responding, he strides to the witness stand, knowing that the more quickly they obtain the first piece, the more easily the others will come to them.

Once in front of the stand, he doesn't pause before laying a hand along the wood and declaring, "I am Castiel. As I stand before you, I intend to speak nothing but the truth in your presence." He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "This I swear in the name of God."

A moment of silence follows, in which Dean winces, like he's expecting some sort of celestial bomb to go off. Nothing happens.

"Wow, Cas, don't hesitate or anything," Dean mutters under his breath, sighing in relief even as his eyes surreptitiously look over at the fallen angel. He is obviously still waiting for some sort of ridiculous side effect to manifest. Possibly a regression into betrayal and lies.

"Hesitation is what has brought me here in the first place," Castiel answers him suddenly, without preamble. "If I had not hesitated to ask for your help during a year of watching you live in that woman's home, perhaps I would not have had to murder so many of my brethren. If I had made myself known to you, if I had dragged you away from your peace, perhaps we would have arrived here sooner, and I would not have had to endure such agony in trying to protect you from this, in trying to let you lead the restful life you have always wished for. Perhaps you would still trust me then, if I had not cared so much for your happiness."

Dean blinks. Grits his teeth. "Okay then. I guess it's working," he murmurs, eyes hard on Castiel as he takes in the former angel's words. They just stare at one another like that for a moment longer, before Dean squirms and takes a steadying deep breath. He gestures vaguely with his hand. "Well? Keep on going, man. I'll let you know when there's so much truth it glows." He can't help but glare as he says it.

Castiel frowns back and feels his hand clench the railing of the witness stand hard enough to ache as a flood of long buried or ignored sensations suddenly course up and over him, flowing over the edges of the tiny container he had kept his feelings trapped inside of all this time. He lets them swell and come forth, because he knows he must in order to draw out the shard, because he knows this grace is God's truth and cannot be stopped. Part of him dreads what he may say next. Part of him anticipates being freed by the words he had forced himself to swallow in the name of peace.

Dean steels himself physically, squaring his shoulders, setting his jaw, turning his eyes hard on Castiel's without really looking at him at all. As if he is preparing for a beating that he does not deserve, but that he must endure.

It is strangely irritating to Castiel.

"Sometimes I wish to blame you for all of this, Dean," he finds himself beginning, softly. "Rationally, I understand that what has happened to me is not entirely your fault, but part of me truly believes that some of it must be, as well. I don't understand why I put you above all else. I don't understand why your life, for the short time that I have known you, should be so much more important to me than those of my brothers, than those who I have known and loved since time was newborn. I watched over you this last year, to try and discern why you matter so much. But I never could, and I could not ask you because I had promised Sam that I would watch over you, and you had promised Sam that you would live a normal life. I did not think you would wish to see me because my continued presence in your life would be innately abnormal and thus breaking your promise to your brother. You never called for me in that year either, and when I considered why, I realized that you never seemed particularly happy to see me even before then, unless it served a purpose necessary to you. If I appeared to you in Lisa Braedan's home, I thought that you would be angry, because it was not on your terms. You are very determined to have everything on your terms and no one else's. You have never been one to compromise, least of all with those closest to you."

Dean's eyes go from hard to wounded, but the set of his jaw remains resolute. "Keep it up. I can take this all day, man," he forces out, around a smile that holds none of the sentiments that Castiel knows are traditionally responsible for bringing smiles into existence. That, and something about the set of his shoulders leads Castiel to believe that Dean is lying. Dean is the only human on the planet capable of lying when an archangel's truth—God's own truth— sits buried, not a foot from where he stands. Dean Winchester is the most infuriating human being in the history of all mankind.

Castiel's knuckles begin to turn white as he tightens his hold on the railing, as he opens his mouth to continue. "Despite everything, I still hold you dear. In that year, in a civil war against my brothers, I watched you in moments unknown to you and used the images of you at peace to bolster me when I stood beside Crowley, when I removed the limbs of a young werewolf one by one when she was still human, when I allowed a demon to force feed the blood of vampires to families he had captured because he required more beasts to experiment on. I was covered in filth those months, like a demon myself, and the only reason I could think of for doing it all was you. By then I had been drenched in the blood of war, I had—_have__—_forgotten what it is like to care for humanity in the face of defeating Raphael. In those moments, I would think that all the humans in the world could burn for all I care about them, so long as victory means keeping Lucifer and Michael in the cage and you and Sam alive. Even now, that is the only reason I find myself fighting, that I find myself capitulating to your uncompromising and infuriating will, though I am unsure whether or not we can succeed by taking this path."

"Cas," Dean begins, but Castiel cuts him off, too much momentum surrounding the tumble of his words to stop now. He is so immersed in his task he does not notice the sudden brightness in the room either, or the blood on his hands from digging his fingernails into the wood so tightly.

"I would die for you, Dean. I have died for you, more than once. I will do it again, most likely. Never for a moment have I thought that you would do the same for me. Sometime I believe Zachariah was correct. You have corrupted me."

Dean winces. "Cas! Seriously, I think it's…"

"Crowley thought that turning children into vampires would make it easier to interrogate them. He thought perhaps their youth and inexperience as a whole would help him manipulate them into releasing information. I did not stop him from trying. This I did because those children meant nothing to me as much as you."

Dean's eyes widen in horror, and before Castiel can open his mouth again, Dean has a hand on his shoulder and is shaking him, and the moment there is contact between them, Castiel feels the familiar flare of his own grace from where it is kept beside Dean's heart. It stuns him a little, a warm, familiar flutter full of warning and fear.

"My turn," Dean growls, voice low but somehow screaming all at once, "And of course I didn't call for you after you disappeared, you asshole. _You__ disappeared._You didn't even say goodbye. So I don't see how it's my freaking fault that you were too scared to drop in and visit when you'd up and left without a backwards glance in the first place. You'd gotten your douche wings back, so I figured you were upstairs doing your douchy business, and holy _shit_ was I right, because everything you're saying to me right now? Every awful, disgusting, idiotic thing you just said? It just tells me you didn't learn a goddamned _thing_ about anyone or anything all that time we worked together. Maybe you forgot it all after you got your heavenly recharge, I don't know. But I hate that you let two years of fighting together become nothing in a second. I hate that you could do all that shit you're talking about and somehow still have the _balls_ to blame me for everything that goes wrong in your life when you obviously didn't man up and come _talk__ to __me_ when you had problems. I hate that you _and_Sam were both around and didn't bother to tell me, because it makes me think that there's something wrong with me if neither of you could just show up and say hi, soulless or humanity-less or whatever."

Castiel stares, the hand on his shoulder squeezing hard enough to bruise, the grace hidden in Dean's shirt glowing bright, and the witness stand starting to go very close to nuclear.

"Dean…" he breathes, and remembers himself finally, what his purpose is here. He shakes his head, the fog of cobwebs somehow clearing with Dean's hand on him and his own grace close enough to touch.

"Shut up," Dean snaps hotly. "If you get to finish sharing, so do I. And I just wanna say, man, I meant it when I said you're family, and you matter, but right now? Right now I can barely stand to look at you." He looks Cas right in the eye, genuinely questioning. "What _happened_ to you, Cas?"

Castiel's eyes narrow as Dean's free hand comes up to grasp his other shoulder so that he can shake the former angel, rage welling up deep inside Castiel's stomach at the thought of a mere mortal like Dean Wincester getting to pass judgment and forgiveness upon him. He finds himself reaching out in return, fisting two great handfuls of Dean's button down in his hands. It frees the hidden cord of Castiel's grace from where it is tucked against his chest, and as it bounces upward and arcs into the glowing light of the witness stand.

"_You_ happened to me, Dean," Castiel says.

And then, before Dean can respond, before a punch can be thrown or more insults composed, there is an explosion of blinding light, as the shard of archangel grace that has been buried in the wood of the stand for years is pulled from the grain in a white hot burst of energy.

Castiel barely manages to shove Dean out of the way as the shard buries itself deep into his chest, burning not unlike the tip of Rachel's blade as it had punctured him in their first battle. It sears into him, his skin, and erupts under the fragile human flesh of his vessel enough that he turns first pink, and then red, his vision whiting out around the edges as a scream is forced from his throat.

"Cas!" he hears Dean dimly in the background, scrambling up from the floor where he'd been thrust and helplessly standing by, reaching out, hand burning against Castiel's too-hot skin. "Cas, goddammit don't you fucking explode again! You don't get to do that again!" he orders, like he has the power to change that fate if only he wills it enough.

The sound of it is distant and tinny in the white hot rush of immense energy blowing through Castiel's ears, but in it is something familiar as well, the warm, soothing balm of his own grace, tied to Dean, kept safe against Dean's rapidly beating heart and bolstered by Dean's own fervent belief.

And then everything stops.

Castiel manages to stagger into Dean's arms before he stumbles and begins to fade into unconsciousness. As he falls, so does the glow of God's truth in the room, going dim and normal in the moonlight once again, so that all that is left in the quiet dark is the sound of he and Dean panting tiredly together in an abandoned courtroom.

Blearily, he looks up at Dean's face one more time—it is pale and has lines around the edges of it that make it look drawn and full of equal parts anger and worry— and as Castiel's eyes flutter closed against his will, he thinks that the sudden pain in his chest must mean their first piece of grace has truly come forth.

Between the two of them, at least they now have truth, if nothing else.

The pain of it is very nearly overwhelming.


	7. Chapter 6

**Six**

Sam watches Dean out of the corner of his eye as his brother sits at the motel room table, munching absently on an Egg McMuffin and studying the vial of grace where he's set it down in front of him, in-between his Styrofoam cup of coffee and his half-eaten deep fried hash brown.

"You think it looks different?" Dean asks abruptly after a minute, around a mouthful of processed egg and biscuit. "Like… duller?"

Sam sighs. "No," he says, because it doesn't. He glances over to the bed, where Castiel is sleeping off the last bit of his archangel grace burnout, dead to the world and smeared in aloe vera because he'd experienced the equivalent of nasty sunburn all over his body when he'd absorbed bits of his dead brother into himself (which continues to be the creepiest thing ever, but whatever).

Cas is recovering at a pretty good rate all things considered though; five hours of burning and irritability and skin tightness had been followed by some rapid, vaguely grotesque monster-movie peeling— which Sam had never wanted to see on any human being ever, particularly on one whom he'd had aloe-rubbing duty for earlier this morning— while Dean had been out taking too long to get food so he could sit in the parking lot of a Burger King and angst about whatever it is that had happened in the court room while Sam had been busy watching Phil the night watchman napping at the security desk. Dean hadn't wanted to talk about it, but Sam had been able to see past the dramatic princess carry his brother had had his angel in last night to find the roiling waves of man pain underneath. It had all been in the tightness of Dean's jaw, the hard lines around his eyes, and the heartbreaking tenderness of his hands around Castiel.

Of course they are not talking about it now because Cas is healing up from his grace burn and Dean has been unusually helpful with running errands and research and volunteering to not be in the hotel room as much as possible.

Hence this travesty of a McDonald's breakfast. Sam is pretty sure there had been an IHOP a mere two blocks from their motel and that the town's one McDonald's had been all the way on the other side of the freeway (mostly because he remembers blearily seeing it out of the corner of his eye when they'd first rolled into the county). Dean Winchester is many things, but subtle is not one of them.

Cas makes a muffled burbling sound from the bed across the room at that moment and Dean's eyes are instantly off of the grace and onto its owner. Sam imagines he can see his brother mentally debating whether he should go back to McDonald's to complain about that other hash brown they forgot to give him at the drive-thru window.

He sighs. "So I think I know where the next shard is," he begins conversationally, before Dean can get up and flee while Cas shifts and blearily sits up in his bed. The angel's hair is standing on end and he still has a thin ring of peeling skin visible around his eyes, which makes Sam wince and put down his already-gross breakfast because looking at the former angel's face somehow just made it that much grosser.

"You've located the next piece?" Cas croaks, voice groggy and sleep worn. Dean eyes him and pushes the third bag of greasy breakfast foods in his general direction.

"Deluxe Breakfast," Dean grunts, and it's like a 1200 calorie monster that makes Sam wonder if his brother is trying to subtly kill Cas with fatness for whatever happened between them at the courthouse.

Cas eyes it dubiously too, like he's thinking the same thing, but eventually gets up and pads to the bathroom to wash up. The sound of running water makes Dean relax a little in the shoulder area, and Sam feels a twinge of irritation at the world and his life in general, because last week, they'd had an out of control angel making deals with the new devil to open Purgatory and probably cause a whole shitton of badness, while this week, it's like they've magically reset to the Dean and Cas romcom happy hour all over again.

"Well?" Dean barks after a beat, and drops his McMuffin on the wrapper with a wet, greasy thud. "Where to next, Sammy?"

Sam tosses a newspaper at his brother, where an article is circled twice in red pen. "Arizona," Sam says, while Dean eyes the ominous photo of a swirling dust devil on the front page.

"Wrath?" Dean asks, after a moment of skimming at the article. His voice sounds grim.

Sam nods. "Looks like."

Dean's eyes slip sideways to the bathroom door. "Great. I might have some to spare."

Sam snorts and goes to pack up his stuff.

* * *

They get to Arizona several days and a series of long, awkward car rides later, Dean doing his best to forget everything he'd heard when they'd been hunting truth so they can move forward with this plan while Cas finishes up his peeling all over the backseat of the car and remains as stubbornly silent as physically possible.

It doesn't stop him from staring nonstop at Dean through the rearview mirror for what has to be _thousands__ of__ miles _though.

Sam looks like he's washed his hands of both of them, but at the very least the uncomfortable atmosphere inside the Impala gets everyone in the right mood to take on southern Arizona's dry desert heat, anti-immigrant sentiments, and a whole lot of swirling sand.

Apparently the storms had begun at the edge of a small town on the Arizona/Mexico border a week or two after Gabriel's death, the dust devils being intermittent but normal up until that winter, when some of the small town's self-appointed militia members had caught a group of illegal immigrants on their land, quietly trying to cross the border under cover of night. Some sort of massacre had happened with all the illegals getting killed, but the court had acquitted the shooters for firing at unarmed people because of some cockamamie law about trespassing or something. It's all kind of fucked up in Dean's book, but according to Sam's research, that's when the storms had started getting particularly bad, and so far, several members of the anti-illegal militia have gotten caught up and killed in them, or in most cases, killed by freak accidents caused by the storms (Dean's favorite had been the one where a guy had been crushed when his Ford pickup had been lifted right off the ground and deposited neatly on his head). Of course this whole affair has led to some sort of huge political fallout or something, with a lot of picketing for both sides and even more white-people-angry-at-Mexicans-for-getting-their-people-killed-because-they're-out-in-the-danger-zone-doing-their-patriotic-duty-by-defending-their-borders and some other stupid shit that Dean thinks people wouldn't care so much about if they knew that angels in Heaven are doing their damndest to blow the whole world up while they argue about boundaries.

In any case, Dean had eaten some decently awesome tacos earlier and is holding a fake US Meteorological Society research badge courtesy of Bobby. He is not looking forward to the vast expanse of desert they'll have to comb over in the next few days in order to properly get their wrath on.

"From what Bobby and I have been able to figure out, the storms are basically centered around where the San Pedro river crosses from the US into Mexico. I'm guessing a lot of people get stopped or killed trying to cross there?" Sam prattles on absently as he juggles a map in one hand and a pen in the other, the route already marked with a bunch of little Xs that signify where each of the storms or accidents that had taken out a militia member had happened. "It's kind of a lot of ground to cover though," he admits after a thoughtful pause, tapping the pen against the map absently. "There's uh, there's a lot of wrath going on here." He stops to look between his brother in the driver's seat and the angel slouched in the back.

"I should be able to discern the positioning of the grace once we are close enough," Castiel informs them, eyes still on Dean's via the rearview mirror. "The piece I already have inside me will likely respond to having one of its counterparts in proximity. It will, at the very least, be slightly more accurate than the spell using my own grace to find it."

Dean feels the vial tucked inside his shirt twinge a bit, causing a series of rapid, super small vibrations against the glass walls that are trapping it. The movements make the skin above his collarbone itch uncomfortably and he winces and rubs at it a little, in the same way he does whenever fast food gives him heartburn (which is increasing in frequency the older he gets, to be perfectly honest). "Considering that we had to out truth the truth to get it to come with us in round one," he begins, with a pointed glance at the angel through the rearview, "what kind of shit storm should we be preparing for when we go and dig up a freakin' archangel's wrath? I mean, do we have to raze a city to the ground to out wrath it or something?"

"An angel's wrath is retribution, Dean, not pointless violence," Castiel tells him calmly. "It is punishment for a perceived crime or someone doing wrong to heavenly command. Archangels in particular are keepers of God's will and the enforcers of His law. They have never been known to act upon their anger without good reason." Pause. Frown. "For our case, I suspect that if you and I are to invoke it as we did truth, and become more attractive an environment to it than its current place of rest in order to claim it, we will most likely have to pummel each other bloody in the sand."

Dean winces, but realizes that Cas is probably right about all of this. Dean's not sure how he feels about it though.

On the one hand, Cas hasn't said much to him since they'd had their little verbal diarrhea explosion with one another back in Georgia, and part of Dean, the part Sam likes to call _you __confrontational__ asshole_, is kind of raring to bring it up again, except not via the talking-it-out channels. Punching out their problems is kind of Dean's best way of handling things. But then another part of him, the part that's busy reminding himself of all the reasons he actually genuinely likes Cas, is telling his confrontational asshole side to shut the fuck up and remember that this guy is family and got blown up _twice_ for him. It is possible that fighting with him on purpose probably won't solve anything. Also, this second part adds, snootily, despite all the creeptastic things Cas had said last week, Dean has to remember that most of it had been focused on the fact that all the angel really wants is for Dean and Sam to live. Dean, in some of his more reasonable moments, gets that; before, choosing Sam had always been easy, had always been something he could do without hesitation even if the consequences might have included the world burning. So on the other hand, wanting to kick Cas's ass for everything he's done might also be kind of hypocritical.

Or you know, Cas might be the one to kick his ass, who knows? It's happened before. Dean looks at his brother. "Right. Pummeling," he says, eventually. "I guess I'll have Sammy standing by with the first aid kit, then."

"We will have to be more violent than a sandstorm," Castiel tells him, gravely. "A sandstorm that invokes Heaven's fury. I doubt a first aid kit will be sufficient to deal with any subsequent injuries."

The flinty edge to Cas's eyes tells Dean that they're clearly on the right track, mostly because it looks like the angel is already starting to feel a little bit wrathful himself.

* * *

Dean makes Sam talk to the border patrol guy they'd spoken to over the phone a few days ago about how they're a team specializing in the _study __of __abnormal __weather __systems_ and how these are _strange_ _ecological __anomalies_ and that they'll probably continue to be a _dangerous __loss __of__ life __if__ we __don__'__t __explore __this __phenomenon__ more __seriously_, mostly because he doesn't think he can pull off the geek speak convincingly. So while Sam is doing all that official stuff, he's busy staring off into the distance, at the desert and shrub and miles and miles of nothing stretching out in front of him. It's kind of pretty, for all he knows that Heaven's murderous intent lies buried somewhere within it, and isn't that just the story of his life, he thinks, as he leans against the hood of the Impala and waits for Sam to conclude his meeting and assure the border patrolman that if they see any illegals they'll report it to the agents via radio immediately.

Dean feels a strange kind of pull when he looks off towards the south, the same kind he'd sort of felt when they'd stepped up to the haunted witness stand for the first time. He thinks it feels a lot like getting pricked by a needle. Or waiting to be pricked, but not knowing when the blow is going to come, exactly.

The sound of crunching gravel behind him signifies Castiel's approach; Dean doesn't bother turning around.

"It is there," Castiel intones after a beat, and doesn't move anymore either. "The grace within me recognizes it, as faint as it is right now."

Dean doesn't say anything about how the grace _he__'__s_ holding seems to want to hurl every time it gets close to another piece of old, dead Gabe, but Sam gets back from his conference with the border patrolmen then, and eyes Dean and Cas dubiously as they stand together by the car, probably because his psychic gigantor frontal lobe can sense tension waves or suppressed rage pheromones or something. It's annoying, and Dean is pretty sure it is the reason behind why those crags in Sam's caveman brow have gotten exponentially more craggy over the last six years. "Everything okay?" Sam asks, looking between his brother and the grumpy angel.

"Fine," Dean and Cas both say, and get inside the Impala.

From there, they wordlessly drive deeper into the desert.

* * *

When Cas tells Dean to stop driving about thirty minutes later it's mostly unnecessary; Dean already knows that they're near by virtue of Castiel's grace twisting against his shirt, a kind of writhing, uncomfortably tight feeling coming from the vial the closer they get to their perceived destination. What they get when they arrive on the scene is not particularly wrathful looking at all though. In fact it almost looks kind of tragically peaceful, as the three of them find the car coming to a stop before what seems to be a crude memorial built under the withered husk of a long-dead tree, the memorial itself being nothing more than two simple wooden crosses sticking up in the dirt and a pair of small flower wreaths long wilted by the heat of the sun and the dryness of the air. "Looks like someone put these up for the people who got shot for trespassing," Sam reports as he checks the GPS coordinates on his phone with one of the little red Xs on his map.

"Gabriel's wrath is here to bring down judgment upon those who harmed them unjustly, most likely," Castiel says, voice lower than normal as he gets out of the Impala without another word. Dean and Sam scramble after him, and when they get to the base of the dead tree, Cas gets on his knees in front of the crosses and just goes for it, putting his hand on the ground there without hesitation. It's a lot like he'd done back at the courthouse, except that wrath is way more dangerous than truth (though Sam might argue semantics about that). The fact that Cas doesn't even warn them that he's going in first annoys the crap out of Dean on principle, and he feels himself gritting his teeth and yanking on the angel's shoulder. "Seriously, man? I know we're not exactly star communicators ourselves, but you could at least warn us. This is Heaven's _wrath_ for fuck's sake. What if it flung us to outer space or something?"

Castiel glares up at him. "What purpose would warning you to prepare for something you are helpless against serve except frighten you?" he answers. "Your reasoning has never made sense to me. Why should I tell you about the things you have no power to change?"

Dean feels his temper flare. "Hey, if I recall, we changed the fucking _apocalypse_ man, so maybe you're being a moron for underestimating what we tiny mortals can or can't do in the first place."

Castiel's eyes are practically glacial despite the heat. "Maybe one or two incredibly lucky incidents have given you a bigger head than is prudent."

In the background, a gust of errant wind starts to kick up some of the sand and dirt around them, and Dean, through a haze of indignation and anger, thinks that maybe this is where the rage pummeling is about to start, because he's pretty sure wrath is answering the call they're throwing out to it right the fuck now, which says a lot about all the feelings between them that have been simmering just under the surface since they managed to wrangle truth out of Georgia. His blood is beginning to boil simply by virtue of looking at Cas's stupid face though, so he can't be bothered to care too much about the logic behind it when he makes this realization.

"Uh, I think it's working," Sam warns them needlessly, holding his arms up against his face to shield himself from the sand as the winds begin to pick up at a steady clip. He gets ignored, mostly because _duh _but also because Dean has some wrath for him too, like about most of the last year, and right now he doesn't have the time to start two fistfights in the middle of a storm in the desert.

This one should be more than enough.

"As always, your brother's powers of observation are stunning," Castiel drawls as he stands, squinting at Dean critically through the grit billowing around them.

"Fuck you, you don't get to talk about _Sam_like that, Cas. Ever," Dean answers, always on instinct. No one makes fun of his little brother but him, not even Cas. "Especially when you judge Sam for doing something and then afterwards, you go out and do the exact same stupid thing!"

Castiel scowls at him, ends of his trenchcoat starting to billow violently around his thighs. "They are hardly the same…"

"They're _exactly_ the same!" Dean shouts, partially because he's probably nearing the top of his rage meter and partially because that's the only way he can hear anything outside of the wind that is building way too quickly than is natural around them. "You think I want to be saved that way? You think I want to see people or angels, or _whatever_that matter to me running around with _demons_ because they don't think I can freakin' take care of myself? You think I appreciate having this _dealt__with_ for me without getting a say in how anything goes? Been there, done that, fuck it in the ass, man! Next time you come to me! Next time, how about before something stupid like you pissing off the Mother of all Monsters happens, you drop in for a chat first? Let me know what's going on? That sound good? What about that? I'll bake freaking brownies man, I'll make tea. Whatever it takes. Just _tell__me_ what's up before you make stupid decisions like that!"

Castiel gets right into Dean's face then, until their noses are scant millimeters apart. "So then I am to assume you are my new God, Dean?" he growls, voice low but somehow booming in Dean's ears despite the flurry of angry activity around them. "For all your talk of free will and _choice_, what you say now seems to be familiar to me; I think I have heard the word of my Father demand the exact same thing of me—of all angels— in eons past. You may choose, but you must still obey; you must always obey. If you do not make God happy, if you do not bow to His word, then He can strike you down as He pleases. Am I to take it you are my new God, Dean? Is that it, then, Lord? Should I return to service then and clear every one of my actions with you first? Shall I kneel at your feet and do as you wish for fear of your wrath? You are the one who taught me choice, Dean, and now you take it away just as easily." Castiel sinks to his knees then, but does not bow his head, something almost akin to an unpleasant sneer on his face. "What wish do you have of me now, Lord Dean? I have abandoned my own plans as you have commanded, Lord. I have come to this place, given up everything I have worked for on my own for the last year at your request, Lord. What else can I do to seek your forgiveness, Lord? How can I further atone for my sins, Lord?"

Dean isn't sure what happens between that moment and the next, but something about the disillusioned, almost bitter look on Cas's face looking at him like that takes him into a future three years forward and an eternity from happening, and before Dean knows it, he's tackling the angel in the sand and punching him in the face. "I don't want to be your _dad,_ you asshole!" he shouts, and grabs the lapels of Castiel's trenchcoat so he can _shake_ the goddamned angel, maybe to rattle some sense into that thick head of his. "I just want you to fucking realize that what you did was wrong!"

Castiel grabs Dean by the elbows and throws him off of him, a dark, almost crackling aura in the air around him. It reminds Dean a little bit too much of Raphael's, back when they'd trapped him in that circle of holy fire and called him a little bitch. It's not quite the same, but still impressive for a guy only rocking 1/7th of an archangel's grace. The force behind it—bolstered by the now maelstrom winds of the storm—sends Dean flying back a little, rolling down the slope of the hill. He feels sand getting into his shoes and his mouth, feels his gun and the demon hunting knife falling out of the waistband of his jeans as he tumbles. The angel, with very little regard for the storm, stands and stalks after him down to the foot of the dune, glowering the entire way.

"And all I wish is for you to _understand_ why I did what I did, Dean, but it has been made clear to me recently that what I want is immaterial." He picks Dean up again, hand slotting over the mark on Dean's shoulder as he yanks the hunter to his feet and looks him right in the eye. "But I would rather you hate me than be destroyed, so hate me if you must. I will find a way save you. Whether we succeed in gathering all of Gabriel's grace or not, whether we require an entirely different plan altogether, I will find a way to succeed. You may hate it all you like, but you will live, Dean. I will not apologize for wanting that. That is _my_free will. You have taken many things from me, but you will not take _that._"

The sand is a whirling wall of angry intent cutting the two of them off from the world now, and Dean has to squint to keep the whipping particles of grit out of his eyes even as he feels them buffeting against his face and scraping the skin there raw. He can just barely make out the fact that the gun he'd dropped just now is getting picked up off of the ground and flung out of the swirling mass they are standing in like a rock out of sling, slamming the weapon into the husk of the dead tree nearby with a crack and a thud. He can dimly make out Sam's silhouette nearby as well, crouched near said tree and doing his damndest to weather out the attack as he crawls low over the ground to get closer to his brother and the fallen angel.

Dean is too consumed by anger to focus on Sam—for once— turning to Cas and shoving the angel's hands off of him in that moment before slamming his head into Cas's chin to get him to back up a step. "I don't want you to save me at that price! That stopped being your job a long time ago, Cas." he hisses, staggering slightly at the impact of his head hitting partially-restored angelic flesh. "I'm not worth that. I'm not worth the _world_."

Cas's answer is to punch him again, and Dean feels it when his teeth break open the soft flesh along the inside of his mouth, sending hot blood gushing out against his tongue. He staggers back and gags a little, spitting up in the sand as Cas stands over him, as the wind picks up to what must amount to a tornado around them. "You do not get to tell me what is or is not worth the world, Dean," he hisses darkly, seemingly more angry about Dean's impression of his self-worth than at Dean's hitting him.

"Guys?" Sam's voice rings out, distant and weak sounding as he fights to be heard over the storm as it grows in size around them with each passing second, like it is its own wailing, expanding universe full of chaos and strife and the explosions of dying stars. "Guys, you need to stop!" he shouts, even as Dean climbs to his feet and rushes Castiel with his full weight. It only sends the angel back a couple of steps though, before Dean feels Cas bunch the back of his shirt into two hands and hold on tight before shoving his knee up into Dean's stomach.

Dean chokes on his own blood as they fall onto the ground together, their backwards momentum causing them to stumble—unbalanced—into the wind. They are both flung downward for their troubles, and Cas lands on his back, head slamming into ground with Dean sprawled out awkwardly on top of him. Their impact with the earth results in an angry sounding crunch that means Dean is going to be walking funny for a week after this, but the throbbing ache in his knee doesn't stop him from pressing the advantage he's been granted as he rolls more fully onto Cas with a wince and slams his palm against the asshole's chest. "Way to save me, Cas!" he shouts, the heel of his palm resting right over Castiel's heart. "I feel great! You're obviously real good at this man, I'm hardly bleeding at all!" he declares, wiping blood from his mouth and chin with the back of his free hand and waving it in Cas's face with a nasty grin.

Cas scowls, grabbing Dean's bloodied hand before Dean can hit him with it again, and just _looks_ first at him, and then to the vial of grace now visible around Dean's neck, after their fall had violently dislodged it from its hiding place under his shirt. Eyes slitted, Castiel simply says, "I will not apologize for what I have done. I am sorry that you are angry, and that I have pained you, but I am not sorry for doing everything I could think to do for you."

Something snaps in Dean then, something more wild and angry than he's ever been, and as he begins to punch Cas again and again and again, the wind whips up, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees it as Sam staggers determinedly towards them, covered in dirt and looking scraped raw as he nearly gets bowled over by the storm. "Dean, stop it!" he shouts, when he sees Dean wailing on Cas, the weakened angel's blood (and some of his own) plainly visible on his bruised knuckles.

"You fucking idiot," Dean shouts, ignoring Sam because right now his chest too tight and his whole world is too red, "I was never worth this. I won't ever be worth this! When will you _get_ that? I keep telling you, Cas, but you never _freaking_ listen!"

"Dean!" Sam shouts again, but Dean barely hears him, doling out his share of wrath on Castiel's body as his vision melts into a white hot blur of angry disbelief and the tornado around them seems to increase in size and velocity with each landed blow.

The vial containing Castiel's grace dangles between them, its own pleas as unheard as Sam's, and finally, after much struggling, Sam manages to reach his brother and tries to haul him up by the arms while Castiel, dazed and bruised, sits up groggily in the dirt.

Dean is in some sort of mindless rage, because even as he hears Sam's voice he doesn't compute the words being used on him; all he wants is to lunge at Cas again and _make__him__see_ how wrong he is about everything. How much it isn't okay for Cas—a freaking angel—to keep throwing himself into the mud again and again for his sake.

It's too much weight. It's too unfair. He never asked for it.

And so Dean struggles out of Sam's grip, sending his brother stumbling backwards, and Dean is too focused on getting his hands around Cas's neck to _choke__him_ that he doesn't notice it when the demon killing knife gets picked up in the winds this time, a lot like his gun had earlier.

Except instead of getting flung at a dead tree, it's whipped right at Sam.

Dean might not see it right away, but Cas does, and even as the grace around Dean's neck flares as bright as a tiny sun for a moment, the angel isn't paying attention because he's too busy ducking under Dean's enraged grasp and diving at Sam.

A burst of light follows, and for a moment, it looks like the heavens are raining clouds of sand as the storm ceases, much more abruptly than it had begun.

Dean feels the anger from moments before evaporate with the wind.

"Dean!" Sam shouts a moment later, voice finally cutting through the cloudy haze of adrenaline in Dean's veins despite how hoarse it must be from the inch of sand coating his throat. "Dean, get the first aid kit!"

Dean turns around, blinking blearily at the sight of Cas lying on his back facing sky. The angry lines that had been around the angel's eyes are gone now, probably because he's gritting his teeth through the pain of having a knife embedded into his shoulder while trying to reach for something tiny and bright, like a firefly hovering right above his head.

"Sam?" Dean manages, and sees his brother on the ground close by, looking kind of stunned but ultimately grateful.

"I'm okay," Sam answers reflexively, though his eyes are trained on Castiel. "But Cas…"

Before Sam can finish, the firefly-shaped thing stops hovering and shoots right into Cas's chest.

Cas shouts and Dean instinctively shuts his eyes as the ground starts to rumble again, clamping a hand around the vial of Castiel's grace as it writhes and shudders against his skin as if it's been shot.

When he opens his eyes again, Cas is sitting up now, knife still in his shoulder, breathing hard. Dean is at his side before he knows what's happening. "Cas?"

"I have the shard," the angel breathes, though his voice sounds strained and he looks like he can barely stay vertical.

Dean scrambles over the distance between them looks him over carefully as he catches his breath again, hand reaching out to steady Cas even though it feels like he won't fall, like he's sturdy enough to sit up and stand up on his own. "You uh, you okay?" Dean asks after a breath, because he doesn't know what else to say in the face of what has already been said. The knife wound in Cas's shoulder is oozing, but the blood doesn't seem to be spreading, and Cas is still conscious, which is a step up from how he'd been after the first piece.

"I feel stronger," Cas intones, and slowly, gingerly, stands up under his own power. He reaches into his shoulder and pulls out Ruby's knife with only a bit of a groan.

Behind them, Sam finally scrambles to his feet again, looking alternately guilty and anxious. "Thanks, Cas," he manages after a beat, as Cas winces a little, flexing his wounded shoulder. At least it already looks like it's stopped bleeding.

Dean clears his throat as he stares at the wound, the red blood staining Jimmy's white dress shirt not for the first time. "Yeah," he manages eventually, voice thick. "Thanks, Cas."

Castiel just studies him for a moment, before stepping forward, so that he's nose to nose with Dean again. Dean half expects to get punched. But instead, Cas just looks at him, in the same way he had that first year they'd known each other, kind of alien, but with complete focus. "I hope you can at least understand," the angel begins, voice barely above a whisper, "that your willingness to give up everything—your morals, your life, your soul— for Sam is exactly what I feel for you, Dean. Even if I forget everything else you have taught me, I will not forget that. And I will not let myself think that you are not worth this." That said, he presses the demon killing knife back into Dean's hands and steps away, limping back to the car and leaving the two Winchesters alone in the desert with the aftermath of Heaven's wrath.

Dean eyes Sam, relieved that he's alive and knowing that if it hadn't been for Cas, Sam might not be right now. Same with Cas pulling Sam out of Hell, come to think of it. The way things got done was weird, but in the end, he realizes that even when it isn't perfect, even if they get angry with each other and have knock down drag out fights over the stupid shit they've both pulled, when it gets right down to it, he and Cas have always been able to get over their issues in light of more important things. One of which Dean is looking at right now. "You sure you're okay, Sammy?" he asks, by rote.

Sam frowns at him. "Yeah. I mean, except for inhaling a pound of sand, I guess."

Dean nods and follows Cas back to the car, which the angel is standing patiently in front of, looking northeast as he clutches gingerly at the wound in his shoulder with his hand. "I believe," he begins without prompting, when Dean comes to a stop at his side, "That the next piece is that way."

"Homing powers getting a better range, then?" Dean grunts, rubbing sorely at his split knuckles. When he studies the angel he thinks he looks a little disoriented still, like he's still gauging the extent of the sudden energy implant his two pieces of archangel grace are providing. "I guess this means the signal's been boosted."

"Yes," Cas answers. "I can sense the other pieces of this grace trying to find one another. They wish to be whole." He looks down at his own chest, as if he can see the grace in there. Maybe he can. "We should leave immediately," he concludes.

"Woah," Dean murmurs. "Maybe we should take a day or two, let you find your legs again. You look like shit, man." A fluttering from just over Dean's heart suggests that Cas's grace agrees with him.

"I am weary, but my constitution is significantly improved now from what it has been," Castiel assures him. "We can go as soon as you and Sam have removed your belongings from the motel. I can recuperate just as well in the car as there." He turns and wordlessly slides into the backseat of the Impala, looking a little bit expectant and a lot impatient. It reminds Dean of save-the-seals Cas in a way, all business and entitlement. The reminder isn't exactly a good one, to be honest. Mostly it just reminds Dean of how annoying the angel had been back then, though he doesn't have the energy to fight Cas on it this time around.

Wordlessly, he tucks Cas's grace back under his shirt and gets into the driver's seat.

Cas ends up falling fast asleep five minutes into the drive.


	8. Chapter 7

**Seven**

Sam watches Dean pick at the bandages on his hands as he eats because his brother has no appreciation for the EMT work Sam has to do on him whenever he gets his ass handed to him by an angel (or a half angel, or whatever Cas counts as right now). Meanwhile, Cas sits across from Dean at their table, poking thoughtfully at a congealing pile of cheddar and bacon fries with a fork.

"Just eat it, man," Dean grunts at the angel, impatiently.

Castiel blinks at Dean and goes back to picking off the bacon and setting it aside. "I am not particularly hungry."

"But you're not _not_ hungry," Dean argues back.

"I ate that pie you purchased for me sixteen hours ago," Cas reminds him. "I still feel relatively sustained."

"Just eat the damn fries," Dean tells him again, and after a moment of challenging looks between them, Cas capitulates and picks a chunk of cheese off of a fry and sets it aside, leaving it bare of extras. He pops it into his mouth, which prompts Dean to roll his eyes, because clearly Dean knows it's the bacon and cheese that really make the fries worth eating. But he seems to be satisfied that the part-angel is eating at least, and allows himself to go back to his slice of cherry pie for the time being, at least until Castiel pushes the plate of fries away with a grunt of dissatisfaction and steals a piece of Dean's dessert instead. Dean sighs and shoves the rest of it at Cas, the look on his face telling Sam that Dean is just happy that the angel is finally listening to him, kind of. Sam is just glad he has his tablet out so that he can hide behind it while the wait staff gives his brother and the angel knowing looks that neither of them notices because they're too busy annoying the crap out of each other. Sam thinks he may have a lead on the next grace piece, but it's kind of ridiculous (which is just on par with their lives, he supposes). Mostly, he just wants to make sure it's the only plausible option they've got given their current direction of travel based on Cas's borrowed grace leading the charge. Otherwise, Dean will probably yell. Hell, he'll _still_ probably yell, even if it is the only logical destination.

Seriously. This lead is weird, even for them. So Sam keeps looking while Castiel and his brother continue to shoot awkward glances at each other from across the table like they've just now hit puberty and have no idea what these strange _feelings_ they feel are. Sam wonders, absently, as he finds another stupid news article, if a Broncos fan finding the face of John Elway on a tortilla constitutes enough of a draw to count as archangel faith. Probably not.

It is with some irritation ten minutes later that Cas has to excuse himself to the restroom—ostensibly to deal with the pie Dean had gotten him sixteen hours ago—when Sam gives up on the tortilla lead because to him, it looks more like Joan Rivers (and thus must be the work of the devil). In the meantime, Dean looks surreptitiously to his left and then his right before hooking his fingers around Cas's forgotten plate of fries. He starts picking at the bacon himself. "Dumbass doesn't know a good thing when he sees it," Dean mutters to Sam as he cycles through Cas's food, though he seems particularly gleeful about the whole thing when he realizes that he can pile bacon bits about an inch thick on each remaining fry because Cas left so much of the meaty goodness behind. In any case, Dean seems happy enough to pick up the angel's slack, and he hasn't been grumbling too much these past few days about Cas, which probably means his mood towards Cas's little demon deal must be improving somewhat. Sam hasn't grumbled about Cas that much either come to think of it, though that's mostly because if someone takes a knife for you, you tend to be kind of forgiving, even though that person might have accidentally left your soul in Hell for the equivalent of a century and a half.

Not that how _Sam_ feels about Cas has ever particularly mattered to Cas or anything. As long as Dean's okay with him, the angel seems pretty content with the world. And right now, Dean seems fairly content. Either that or he's pretending really well.

Sam eyes his brother curiously, and wonders if bloody beat downs in Arizona deserts constitute some sort of manly acceptance ritual or something.

Dean feels Sam's eyes on him and studies Sam back, before pulling his plate of fries a safe distance away. "You look like you're going to hurl, Sammy," he says. "Don't do it on my bacon."

Sam frowns. "I'm not going to throw up. I was just thinking."

Dean's eyebrows lift questioningly as he continues to make bacon piles on fork. "And?"

Sam tries to think of a clever way to segue into this, but gives up because there really isn't. "Are you and Cas okay then?" he presses, setting his tablet down for a bit. "I mean, you seem…relatively normal. For you guys. Despite the punching-each-other-in-the-face-a-lot."

Dean winces. "Guy made a deal with a demon and started a war with the Mother of all Monsters that could have ended the world, man. So I don't know if _okay_ is where we're at yet." Pause. Frown. "But he saved you. And that always means something."

Sam shifts. "You think you'll ever be okay again?"

Dean stops fiddling with his fork for a minute to look at Sam and sigh in some sort of weary resignation. "Cas is family," he says resolutely, and that's it.

Sam isn't sure if that answers his question or just avoids it, but for the moment, he takes it for what he's sure it does mean. Regardless of feeling, to a Winchester, family means they're in this together 'til the end. Or however many ends there are, given their track record.

Sam huffs and picks his tablet up again at the thought, bringing up the website of the most likely culprit he'd found when Cas had pointed them in this direction the other day. "So I think I've got a lead?" he poses cautiously, while Dean is staring contemplatively into the mess of re-solidifying melted cheese on Cas's plate. "I mean, it's kind of iffy, but it seems like the only thing worth mentioning in Colorado right now that isn't horrors on a tortilla."

Dean perks at that, as if thankful for the distraction from all the brooding and the tragic waste of cheddar. "Yeah?"

"Apparently there's a hot spring resort a couple hundred miles north of here that's acting as some sort of marriage counseling retreat," Sam begins, and doesn't have to look at his brother to know that his brother is making the stinky-fart face. Sam pushes on before Dean can ridicule him. "According to the website, the waters of the spring around the resort are guaranteed to rekindle the love in your troubled marriage."

Dean's stinky-fart face goes straight to stinky-world face. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

Sam pushes the tablet under Dean's nose. "There's a 100% guaranteed success rate, since 2010, Dean. Hundreds of couples swear by it, saying that it helped them forgive, understand, and rediscover why they loved each other in the first place. It's the only possibility that I can find in the direction Cas is pointing us in."

Dean stares at the headline on the top of the site's Testimonial's page. "Heat up in the waters of love? Seriously?"

Sam shrugs. "Like I said, it's the only thing that makes any sense right now." Pause. "Besides, even if I am wrong, they say the water's good for the relief of minor aches, pains and rashes." He gives Dean a pointed look, because his brother is absently picking at his bandages again.

Dean snorts but does stop picking at his bandages. "None of that sounds like it has anything to do with grace, if you ask me. Seems more like a scam."

Sam shrugs. "We still haven't found mercy or love, right? I mean, a lot of the testimonials say that it's been helping couples with infidelity problems get over that. Plus the timing is right. According to the owner, the spring had run dry up until a month after Gabriel died. Then bam, one night in early spring, it just started flowing again. Apparently he and his wife were having marital problems at the time, and when the spring started flowing again out of nowhere, they took it as a sign."

Dean grabs the tablet and scrolls through a little more of the page, looking like he's about to say some particularly derisive things about fake testimonials and _once__ a__ cheater __always __a__ cheater,_ but Cas's arrival kind of kills that, mostly because he'd forgotten to do up his fly properly. "It sounds like a possibility," the angel intones as he takes his seat across from Dean again. "We should check it out."

"Fly, Cas," Dean says, in a long-suffering sort of way.

Cas frowns. "Where? I cannot…"

"No, _fly_," Dean reiterates, making a vague gesture in the area of Cas's crotch and turning slightly red when he does.

Cas blinks and then looks down at his lap.

"Oh." He zips up his fly.

Dean wordlessly hands the tablet back to Sam. "So we're really checking this out? Really?"

"I don't see why we shouldn't," Castiel responds, and grabs what's left of Dean's milkshake to polish off.

Dean sighs. "Fine. So how do we do this? Journalists again? Health inspectors? Or do we go the direct route and bust in after dark?"

Sam snorts. "Anyone who isn't signed up for the counseling retreat isn't allowed past the front lobby, Dean. Apparently it's part of the bonding _process_."

A moment.

And then Dean balks. "No. _No__ way_. I am not pretending to be gay married to you. Do they even let gay people into this sort of place?"

Sam can't believe his brother sometimes. "Of course they do, Dean. Straight couples aren't the only ones with marital problems or money, you know." Pause. "And obviously you and Cas are going to be ones who are gay married. I'm pretty sure if it was you and me we would have to do couples' exercises that would only serve to make people like Becky really happy."

Dean balks. "Me and Cas?" Dean eyes Cas like he's suddenly grown two heads. "Why? Why don't _you_ pretend to be gay married to him? Most of the time I think you're gay anyway."

Sam frowns. "Maybe because _you__'__re_ the one he gave a necklace made of _his__ grace_ to use as a dowsing rod?"

"Well it's not like he needs it with bits of Gabe inside him leading the way now!"

Cas starts to look like he's annoyed that neither of them seems to remember that he's still _right__ here_ and no one is asking him what _he_ thinks about it. Dean pauses in his argument to tell Cas to stop sulking, which gives Sam the advantage of an extra second to formulate his argument. "I'm just saying," he insists. "Two of you will cover all that ground faster than one. It's a big, expensive resort."

Dean balks. "Don't even start…"

"Apparently they have a four star buffet for attendees," Sam interrupts. Just throwing that out there.

Dean pauses. Frowns. "Four out of how many?"

Sam grins at his brother. "Four." Meanwhile, Cas is just sitting there watching them like he has no idea what's going on anymore. He probably doesn't. He slurps up the rest of Dean's milkshake in a resigned sort of manner as he waits out the results of their argument, somehow getting some whipped cream on the corner of his mouth in the process. Dean absently hands the angel a napkin while still glaring at Sam, and Sam is pretty sure two of the waitresses behind the counter are having conniptions at how ridiculously cute that gay couple from out of town at table three are as a result. Sam wisely does not bring up the fact that they already act like they're married half the time as part of his argument though, because he knows it will just make Dean fight harder.

Eventually, Dean sighs and Sam wins. "Fine. Whatever." He turns to Cas, who is just holding the napkin Dean handed him and not actually doing anything with it. Dean mutters something derisive under his breath and snatches the napkin back to wipe Cas's mouth for him. "Here, honey," he sneers. "You got a little something on your face."

"Thank you, Dean," Cas answers, completely unperturbed. "I like milkshakes."

"Yeah, great," Dean tells him, sounding grumpier than usual as he goes up front to pay the bill. Sam gleefully registers Dean and Castiel for the retreat while his brother isn't looking.

* * *

"_Welcome_ to the Second Chances resort!" a woman in a Barbie pink dress suit intones the minute Dean and Cas are through the front door, her smile a little too wide and her eyes a little too bright as she looks at them. It makes Dean instinctively want to punch her in the teeth and run away, because he's seen a lot of different types of zombie in his time as a hunter and this is pretty much showing all signs of the evil undead except that instead of wanting to eat anyone's flesh she probably wants to cuddle it to death.

Which is probably worse.

"Hello," Castiel answers her politely, duffel bag clutched in one arm while he looks from one side of the room to the other, clearly on the lookout for renegade slabs of archangel grace. It makes him look incredibly seedy.

Dean glares at him before shouldering his bag while the woman in the pink dress suit continues to look at them with that freaky horse smile still on her face, like she's waiting for something. Dean is not sure what it is. Eventually, she blinks, once, and says, "Do you have a reservation with us?"

Dean's glower turns even darker. "Yeah," he coughs.

"Name?" she asks, without missing a beat.

"Gaylord," Castiel intones, when Dean can't say it.

Fucking _Sam_. He nearly had a fit laughing at how clever he is when he'd printed out the reservation conformation e-mail for Dean and Cas at the Kinkos back in town.

The woman lights up again. "Gaylord party of two!" she chirps, like there are parties that come in to this place in numbers _other _than two. "_Welcome_! Right this way!" She makes a sweeping motion with her clipboard-free arm behind her, gesturing grandly towards the dual spiral staircases straight out of some cheesy Hollywood movie mansion that line the foyer. She spins neatly on her heel and precedes them up the leftmost spiral staircase, all the while chattering on about the resort's 100% success rate, something about couples' massage therapy, and trust exercises. "Luckily you two booked when you did; we just happened to have a cancelation yesterday. Divorce, you know. Too bad, if they'd come here first they might have avoided it! Here's your room, we call it the Odyssey Suite! We call it that because we like to think that married couples, even after years and years journeying apart, can reunite in the end as long as they believe. Isn't that wonderful? My name is Barbara, if you have any questions or concerns, feel free to ring down to the concierge desk and let me know." She pauses to actually take a breath then, flipping over a few pages on her clipboard before shoving into Dean's face. "I'll just need your signatures there, Mr. and Mr. Gaylord."

Dean looks distrustfully at the mile-long small print on the paper. Barbara continues to blink robotically at him. It's unsettling and makes him want to stab her in the face because his hunter reflexes are screaming _it__'__s_ _not__ human_ at him.

Meanwhile, he can practically feel Cas staring at him in a _why __are __you__ wasting __our __time_ sort of way, and between the angel and the robot lady, Dean grits his teeth, signs his name _Dean__ Gaylord_ and shoves the clipboard at Cas.

Cas signs it without any of Dean's theatrics, and when they hand it back to the Barbara-bot her smile _broadens_ somehow, and she tilts her head a little to the side. "Welcome to your first step towards matrimonial reconciliation, Mr. and Mr. Gaylord!" she pulls a sheet of paper out of her clipboard and hands it to Dean without missing a beat. "Here is your daily schedule, please note that by signing the contract you have agreed to comply with every activity on this list. Now, I'll give you both an hour to settle into your little love nest and then you'll be expected downstairs for your group ice-breakers and the welcome barbeque. See you soon!"

She spins around before Dean can protest about _welcome __barbeques_ and closes the door behind her. He looks hopelessly at Cas. Who is looking out the window again, all squinty-eyed and serious. "This is a very large facility," the angel says after a beat, apropos to nothing.

Dean scowls and throws his bag onto the room's single, slightly undersized _boat__ shaped __bed_. Odyssey room. What the fuck.

Eventually, Cas turns to him and looks vaguely concerned. "What is an ice-breaker?"

Dean shoves the schedule at him—he thinks he saw _couple__'__s__ counseling_ on it _twice__— _and goes to raid the mini bar.

* * *

As luck would have it, Cas's grace pings the _yes __it__'__s __here_ signal to Dean the minute they get past the horrible catching-each-other and I'm-bringing-whatever-to-the-picnicgames on the lawn during the welcome barbeque and move on to the couple's scavenger hunt and nature hike along the mountain.

Dean similarly feels like he's been pinged when his hand automatically goes up to clutch at the vial around his neck as they're passing by one of the idyllic little brooks that dot the property, right as Cas's head tilts in his universal gesture of _something__ interesting__ is __happening__ here_. "The grace is in the water," the concludes out loud, while a troubled middle-aged married couple struggles to help each other up the trail ahead of them as they very intently search for something in nature that reminds them of each other along the way. According to their counselors, this scavenger hunt will have a presentation element later. Personally, Dean thinks he'd rather get a divorce than have to find a rock or a leaf or a stick and tell people why it makes him think of Cas.

In the meantime, the angel is crouching by the edge of the water, running his fingers in the stream and sighing to himself.

Dean winces as Cas's grace doesn't seem nearly as keen on the idea of the water or the grace that's inside as the vial pulses wildly under his palm.

"Well?" he asks after a beat, when another couple goes rollicking past them on the trail, talking about how pinecones remind them of each other. "What've we got?"

"Mercy," Castiel answers eventually, voice quietly reverent. "We have found mercy."

Dean snorts. "So what? An archangel's mercy is all about forgiving cheaters?"

Castiel looks at him. "God's mercy is forgiveness in its purest form, Dean," he intones very solemnly, perhaps even a bit wistfully. "Even after wrongdoing, divine forgiveness is meant to grant relief and acceptance to those who have trespassed on Heaven's good will. My Father's love is boundless, even in the face of disappointment or anger. Humans, I believe, are capable of this type of absolution as well, which is what drew the shard here in the first place. What is more merciful than to forgive those whom we love, and are thus capable of hurting us the most?"

Dean swallows, suddenly feeling oddly self-conscious. "Yeah, okay. So divine mercy is forgiving cheaters and liars. This means we just need to get it out of the water, right?"

"It is not here, exactly," Castiel explains. "I can only feel it faintly in the water as it runs off. I believe the grace is the reason why the spring began to run again, and so we must find the source of the water instead."

Dean starts to feel hopeful at the news. "Great. Then we get in, get out, and skip the presentation about our feelings and why pinecones make me think of your eyes."

Castiel frowns and reaches into his pocket. "I have found a rock that makes me think of you," he reveals, and takes out something small and shiny and jagged. "It lodged itself in my shoe."

Dean scowls. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It was very irritating and poked me incessantly for the last kilometer."

Dean isn't sure if his feelings are hurt or not. "Yeah, well, maybe it's half your fault for picking it up in the first place," he tells Cas, mostly without thinking.

Cas's eyebrow furrows, like he doesn't get Dean at all. "I had no choice in the matter," he says. "But when I removed it, I decided it was not unpleasant to look at." He holds it up on the flat of his palm. "When the light hits it, it shines very brightly."

Dean is pretty sure he's officially embarrassed now. "That's creepy, Cas," he mutters, watching as the angel absently turns the rock in his hand.

"I like this exercise," the angel reveals. "It is…creative. I have not often had the option of being creative for creativity's sake."

Dean belatedly realizes that this probably means that Cas actually expects him to find something that reminds him of the angel in return. He wonders if he can catch one of those really annoying birds that mimic all kinds of different noises in the middle of the night and poop on your car.

Meanwhile, a young couple in matching polos on the path behind them snickers as they scoot past Dean and the angel; the douchebag husband wags his eyebrows at Dean and declares, "If you two lovebirds stand around staring at each other all day, you'll definitely come in last!"

His wife giggles, playfully hits her husband on the shoulder, and murmurs "Oh _you_," in a way that isn't as friendly as it sounds and makes Dean think she might have caught him cheating with dudes before and is not happy with how he's side-eyeing Cas right now. She grabs his wrist and pulls him away from the unusually handsome gay couple flirting by the stream.

Dean sighs and pulls Cas further along the path, out of earshot of the douchy polo-wearing creepers just outside the main trail. "So we hit the source tonight, when everyone's asleep, right?"

Castiel sticks the rock back in his pocket. "It seems like the wisest course of action. We are constantly being supervised or attended to otherwise."

Dean hesitates for a moment, because as much as he'd like to have this little slice of organized-activity hell as far back in the rearview mirror of the Impala as physically possible, he also knows that incorporating foreign archangel grace hasn't exactly been a picnic for Cas, either. "You uh, you sure you're okay to go so soon after the last piece?" he asks under his breath. "Last time you had more than a week in-between charge ups, man. I don't want to, you know, overload the system or anything." _Blow__ you __up __again_, he means.

Castiel looks down at his own hands. "I believe I am ready. Wrath took significantly less time to recover from than truth, and so I surmise they will grow easier with each additional fragment."

Dean eyes him for signs of squirrely behavior. "You sure there's space?"

Castiel doesn't seem overly concerned. "If there is not," he says, reasonably, "then we will know."

Dean scowls. "What, by angel explosion?"

"Yes."

Dean really could punch the guy right about now, except that their guide, Mr. Mack, a scrawny sixty year old man with the stamina of a twenty-something, rounds the corner at a leisurely pace at exactly that moment and Dean is pretty sure they'll get thrown out if he suddenly becomes Mister DV in the middle of this cute bonding exercise. "Mr. and Mr. Gaylord!" Mr. Mack calls out cheerfully to them when he sees them lingering, "Please don't wander off the main trail! And you're falling behind! C'mon, here we go! Buck up and keep moving forward, like the trails on the journey of life, don't you think?"

He grins a little bit like the Barbara-bot as he says this and continues to enthusiastically wave them over like they're puppies he's trying to train with positive reinforcement or something.

Dean grudgingly lets Cas lead them back towards the trail, where Mr. Mack winks and nudges and asks them if they'd stopped off to have a private moment.

"Yes," Castiel answers readily, mostly because it's true in the most basic sense of the word and also because he obviously doesn't get what all the eyebrow wriggling and elbow nudging is supposed to signify.

"Oh wonderful!" Mr. Mack cries, clapping his hands in over-exaggerated glee. "I can't wait to hear what you two lovebirds managed to find during the scavenger hunt."

Dean mutters darkly to himself and stops to surreptitiously pluck a dandelion as he follows Cas and Mr. Mack up the incline.

* * *

Approximately twenty minutes later, the rest of the hiking group looks reproachfully at Dean from their picnic blankets in perfect unison.

"And er…how does a weed remind you of your husband?" Mr. Mack asks Dean carefully.

Dean glares because these people have no fucking right to judge him and his…weed thing. Castiel, on the other hand, just seems curious and completely unfazed by the unflattering comparison as he watches Dean fidget with the little yellow flower in his hands while everyone else stares.

"You know, it's er…tough," Dean manages, after a minute. "No matter how much you try to get rid of it, it keeps popping up again and again."

Everyone looks at him like he's some kind of monster.

He backtracks quickly when he realize why. "Not that I try to get rid of Cas, or anything. I'm just saying. He doesn't look like much, but he's a pretty tough guy."

This earns Dean more glares. Castiel just appears thoughtful as he holds that stupid pointy-edged rock that gets shiny in sunlight. Dean looks at him in a pleading kind of way. The angel isn't sure what he's asking for though, and just blinks back. Tilts his head. Is not helpful at all.

Eventually, Mr. Mack coughs. "Okay, Dean. Do you realize that everything you just said was basically a backhanded compliment?"

"Yeah, you're basically the worst husband ever," that peppy bitch in the polo pipes up from somewhere in the background. She sounds pretty smug about it, like this is some sort of competition or something.

Dean balks, because _fuck __her,_ he's an awesome fake husband and she knows shit about him.

Mr. Mack tsks in Dean's defense. "Allison," he chastises Polo Bitch, gently, "there's no call for that kind of judgment. We're here to help each other."

Allison just shrugs while Dean crushes the dandelion in his fist. Mr. Mack continues to gauge him in an even more judgmental way with his eyes than Allison had with her words.

"Hey, Cas's thing for me is way worse. Look at that stupid pointy rock," Dean objects, when he can't take those looks anymore. They make him feel inexplicably shitty.

"It's so pretty," some dumbass with a wine glass comments to Cas, before turning to Dean with angry eyes. "Much prettier than a weed."

Dean wants to cram his fist down the dumbass's throat. "Hey, _he__'__s_ the one who cheated, not me!" Dean points out. Because it's _true_. Just, you know, completely out of context.

"Well some of us can see _why_," Allison the Polo Bitch snipes.

Eventually, Mr. Mack holds out his hands to silence the others. "That's enough of that, ladies and gentlemen," he says patiently, before turning back to Dean and folding his hands together in a damned patronizing kind of way. "Dean," he begins after a deep, calming breath, "why don't you try again? Forget the object. Just tell us something beautiful that reminds you of Cas."

Dean stares in horror. Give him a ghost, give him a werewolf pack, give him a _fucking __coven __of __witches_. Anything but this.

But nothing evil and man-eating comes tearing out of the woods to save him. Mr. Mack just stares back, expectantly. Cas is still watching sunlight glint off of his stupid shiny Dean-rock.

"Dean, is there really nothing pleasant that reminds you of Cas?" Mr. Mack prompts, after a prolonged moment of silence.

Dean, without thinking, hastily grabs for the vial of grace around his neck. "This," he says, because he's shit for ideas. "It's uh… a necklace thing that Cas gave me?"

Everyone stares in awe at the softly glowing light of Castiel's grace as it pulses warmly in the sunlight. It's way shinier than the fucking rock and about a billion times prettier to boot, as far as Dean''s concerned.

"Well, that is beautiful," Mr. Mack says, sounding oddly touched. "Do you always wear it around your neck like that?"

"Er…since he gave it to me, yeah," Dean answers, inexplicably embarrassed by the looks some of the couples are giving him now. Like he's all tough and mean on the outside and super soft and gooey on the inside.

Mr. Mack looks delighted. "And it's always right over your heart like that? That's a powerful sign of something, don't you think, Cas?"

Castiel finally tears his eyes away from the rock and looks straight at Dean. "That container holds my essence," he agrees. "So of course I am glad he wishes to keep it close to him at all times, despite everything."

Dean squirms, feeling his face heat up for no good reason. He quickly tucks the grace back under his shirt. The other couples look vaguely disappointed to see its bright, swirling depths disappear. Whatever, it's not for them anyway.

"All right," Mr. Mack pushes. "Let's move on down the list then, shall we? Why don't you show us the item you found that reminds you two of the first time you met? Cas?"

Castiel stands and reveals a hawk feather that he'd found early on the trail. Dean automatically does not like where this is going.

"Oh, that's lovely," Mr. Mack coos when he sees it. "And what about it made you think about the first time you meant Dean?" He pauses to grin slyly. "Did he _hunt_ you?"

Castiel thinks about that. "He attacked me with a kn…"

Dean manages to clamp his hand over the angel's mouth a little too late.

And then there they are again. The center of attention via some horrified expressions.

Mr. Mack actually seems to pale in light of this revelation. "You…attacked him?"

Dean tries to think fast, even as he feels Castiel's calm, unperturbed breathing under the palm of his hand. "I thought he was stalking me, okay?" he answers, defensively. "And to be fair, he kind of was."

Everyone eyes Dean and the fact that he has a hand clamped over Cas's mouth like a wife beater. He hastily removes it.

"I had something important to say to him," Castiel fills in, once he's allowed to speak again. "He could not hear me the first time I tried to speak to him."

Some of the other couples inch backwards. Mr. Mack honestly looks lost, and he'd been the one to go on and on at the beginning of this whole stupid hike about how he's heard all kinds of stories and that no one should be afraid to share, thinking that they were weird or something.

To him, this is most definitely weird. Dean doesn't really blame him though. It's still kind of weird to _him_ and he fucking lived it.

He looks sideways at Cas. "Okay so the first time we met we didn't get along. That happens, right?"

Nervous laughter. More backwards inching.

Dean sighs and looks at Cas. "I blame you for this."

Cas frowns and puts the feather back in his pocket.

Mr. Mack quickly moves on.

* * *

After the disaster hike it's back to the main resort area for an outdoor movie screening of some idiotic romance drama where Dean has to hold Cas's hand the whole time and some ludicrous book club-esque discussion afterwards ensues about how Hollywood distorts the concept of relationships and the expectations people attach to them and blah, blah, blah. "It should never come to I'd die for you, I'd give up everything I am for you," their moderator—Patti, or something— blabs cluelessly. "Real, working romance and relationships are about compromise and communication. The high dramatics you just saw lead to destructive and ultimately short-lived relationships at best. They aren't realistic, despite how much the media wants us to believe they are."

Castiel frowns at that part—Dean can see it out of the corner of his eye—and looks like he's thinking he's been going about everything all wrong for the past three years. Dean is pretty sure Patti or something has never had to take on Heaven _and_ Lucifer smack dab in the middle of the end of the world, and if he could do it without looking like a crazy person, he'd probably tell her to shut her stupid face because sometimes, all you have is _I__'__d__ die __for __you,__I__'__d __give __up __everything __I __am__ for __you_. Instead, he awkwardly squeezes Cas's hand in his (because apparently they have to keep touching in one way or another for the course of the evening), and after a moment, Cas cautiously squeezes back, signaling that he understands that their lives are by no means the norm. Satisfied that the angel is aware that his actions shouldn't be classified as _dramatics,_Dean promptly raises his free hand and asks Patti or whatever her name is what the hell was up with that tree symbolism in the end of the movie, which gives her a hard on for cinematography that forces them to finally change the effing subject.

It isn't until they get called in for their "dinner dates" that Dean finally sees the actual hot spring source, barred off from the rest of the resort by some natural rock face and a well placed line of wooden fencing. The grace around his neck gives a lurch as they pass by it, and he and Cas share a look at that moment that means the angel definitely felt it too, though Dean is betting the Gabe grace inside him reacted much more favorably than Cas's original grace did.

They surreptitiously drop to the back of their group and come to a stop along the fence, right beside a sign that very prominently reads, "Enter From Lobby Only." Dean pauses mostly to see if he can sneak a peek inside to get a lay of the spring while Cas closes his eyes like he's trying to commune with the grace shard from a distance.

"Looks pretty crowded," Dean mutters, perched on a round, smooth boulder while balancing on his toes as he tries to see over the top of the fence. "Guess they keep a full schedule on the magic waters or whatever."

"There is a lot of interference," Castiel agrees. "I will definitely have to touch the grace directly."

"Ahem," Patti or something interrupts, nearly causing Dean to lose his balance against the fence. Cas reaches out a hand to steady him on his boulder before he can go careening into the woodwork though. "Gentlemen, your group will be allowed to enter the spring for bath counseling tomorrow afternoon. Please give the current group their full opportunity to enjoy the healing waters of our main attraction during their allotted time." She smiles in that freaky way everyone who works here does and then ushers Dean and Castiel along the path insistently, herding them like sheep towards the dining hall.

"So, the spring must be pretty busy then, if it's the main attraction at all. You ever close it down, or is it open 24-7 for this kind of thing?" Dean asks along the way, trying to act casual.

Patti just continues to smile at him. "The spring is a very important part of Second Chances, and every couple who comes through the program is guaranteed at least one group session in the water," she informs him, sounding like a TV commercial. "If you're interested in additional time in the spring, we make hourly reservations for an additional fee subject to availability." Pause. "I will say, however, that usually a week's advance notice is needed along with a prepaid deposit."

Dean scowls. "What if I want to book it for like three in the morning?"

Patti blinks. "Due to high demand, _all_ hours outside of those reserved for group water sessions are booked at least a week in advance, Mr. Gaylord. If you want, however, I could have Barbara pencil you in tentatively for three am next Friday?"

Dean sighs. "Great. Sure. Do that."

She positively lights up at the sound of that, pausing to pull out her phone and furiously text something to the front desk as they reach the entrance to the dining hall. "We'll go ahead and charge it to your account then! Enjoy dinner, you two! Feeding each other is a crucial couple's activity here at Second Chances. And the chocolate soufflé is _amazing._" She makes a little squealy joy face that reminds Dean a lot of Becky before turning around and scurrying off.

"I do _not_ wish to stay here for a week," Castiel declares, after a beat. "That movie was very difficult to follow."

"Finally," Dean mutters, and yanks open the door to dim dining room, "something we agree on."

He supposes this means that bath counseling tomorrow is going to be an interesting group experience with the added addition of grace hunting involved. Hopefully no one will get punched in the face when they find _this _shard.

* * *

When Dean calls Sam to update his brother on their progress and accidentally lets it slip that they'd done some ridiculous exercise where one person was blindfolded at the dinner table and the other had to feed them, Castiel can hear Sam's laughter through the phone, loud and genuine and a thing not heard by his ears for a very long time. Dean grouses appropriately, calls Sam a litany of insulting names, and then hangs up with a sheepish look across their bedroom at the angel, who still has chocolate sauce on his tie from a small mishap during the meal. "Sam's going to try and hack the system, maybe cause some of the people ahead of us in line to uh, lose track of their payment," he explains, while Castiel stifles a yawn. The angel can't help but realize that Dean is incredibly interested in watching him yawn, even though Castiel is certain that he has seen Dean and Sam do the very same thing countless times over the years. He wonders if it is simply because he is doing it that it is interesting, like when Sam uses his computer to watch video clips of cats being ridiculous. Sam insists that it's because it's cats doing these things that makes them amusing, and not because the act itself is amusing. Castiel writes it off as just another one of those things that he will never understand about humans.

"I think I require sleep," Castiel says after a moment, in which Dean just watches him.

"Well yeah. You haven't slept in what, forty-eight? You got less than half a grace in you, I think that means you count as mostly human still, Cas."

Castiel nods and settles down in the bed. Dean balks. "Hey, man," he protests, and points towards the bathroom. "Just like that? Really? We've had this talk before."

Which is not true. The last time there had been a talk about pre-sleep rituals, Bobby had given it to him, albeit grudgingly. Castiel huffs in annoyance and climbs out of the ridiculous boat-shaped bed to go change and brush his teeth.

When he returns from doing as such a few minutes later it is only to find Dean stretched out in the middle of the bed, face buried against a pillow and looking more than comfortable. Castiel allows himself to feel a tired sort of irritation at the sight, especially since Dean still seems to be fully dressed and possibly drooling.

Sometimes, Castiel is uncertain of how this person came to be the most important human in all the universe to him.

He quietly shuts the light off and fits himself carefully into the edge of the bed, filling in the empty spaces where Dean is not.

* * *

When Castiel is woken some hours later, it is by the buzzing of Dean's phone on the nightstand and the fact that the entire bed is suddenly shifting.

"Dammit, Cas, move, will you?" he hears Dean grunt, right before he feels his arms being lifted from whatever it is they are clinging to. The process is jarring, and he ends up hitting his chin on something in a faint attempt to struggle. The impact wakes him a little more though, while earning a soft, "Ow, dammit, _move,_" from Dean.

Eventually, Castiel realizes that the thing he is clinging to is in fact, Dean, and that he is completely wrapped around the human, which is making it impossible for Dean to move and pick up the phone. A groggy, irritated part of Castiel thinks that's just fine, because his body is warm and comfortable as is and it feels far too early to move in the first place.

Dean seems to disagree though, valiantly fighting off Castiel's attempts to burrow in and go back to sleep, and there is a string of more incoherent noises of frustration from Dean before the human finally manages to squirm out from underneath Castiel and grab the phone. "Yeah, Sam?" he mutters, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand while Castiel blinks owlishly at him from the other side of the bed. "What? Seriously? Okay, okay. Cool. Great. I hate your stupid face. Bye."

Dean hangs up and flops his head back onto the pillow with a sigh. "We're in. Sam says someone from scheduling should call us," he reports groggily, before pausing to look at the clock. "At seven? Ugh. Move the fuck back to your side, man."

The clock reads six-thirty, Castiel notes, as he blinks a few more times and yawns once. Dean watches him, looking awkward. "Is something the matter?" the angel asks, after a beat of more watching.

Dean scowls, face turning red and shoulders going tense. "Nothing. Jesus Christ, how is this my life? I'm taking a shower. Put some damn pants on and keep an eye on the phone."

"Of course, Dean," Castiel responds, and wonders why Dean thinks he is incapable of using the phone without constantly keeping eye contact with it. Dean is the one who had taught him how to operate one in the first place, and it is not an entirely difficult concept once you get the hang of it.

Dean gives him one more dubious look before getting up and blustering into the bathroom, looking like he's already in a foul mood for the day, despite only being up for seconds.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rings, and Barbara's inhumanely cheerful voice greets the angel from the other side. Dean is still in the shower for whatever reason, and so Castiel listens to her delighted machinations about fate and timing and how a spot had _mysteriously_ opened up for them to have a private hot spring therapy session this morning. In fifteen minutes if they can make it. "We will be there," Castiel promises solemnly, prompting Barbara into another fit of squealing delights before wishing them a good morning and hanging up.

The sound of the shower continues to run from the bathroom, and absently, Castiel looks down at his lap and wonders how long his morning erection is going to stare back at him.

He goes to put on pants and hopes that Dean will hurry up and finish his shower. He would like to brush his teeth.

* * *

Dean is already supremely uncomfortable at the start of the morning, when he wakes up to the sound of his phone buzzing by his ear only to realize that he's got an angel wrapped around him, nose buried against his chest and snoring softly. It only gets worse from there when he actually opens his eyes, sees that said angel's morning wood is up and about long before its owner is.

So of course he retreats to the shower, uncomfortable and awkward and trying not to think about anything as he quickly rubs one out under the spray, dries off, and proceeds to brush his teeth like he does every morning.

He's almost back to a decent state of equilibrium when a knock on the door jars him from his mantra of _just__ a__ few __more __hours,__ just __a__ few __more __hours_ and Cas's voice prompts, "Dean, if you do not hurry, we will be late. I have confirmed our seven o'clock session in the spring with Barbara. She was very happy with us."

Dean scowls into the mirror and spits before rinsing his toothbrush out. "All right. Do you have pants on?"

"Yes, Dean."

Dean wonders about his life as he shaves quickly, gets dressed, and throws the door open. Castiel is wearing pants now, thank god, and looks vaguely perturbed because it's five minutes to seven and he won't get to brush his teeth or something. Dean absently points at the mouthwash as he exits the bathroom and two minutes and one cranky partial angel later, they're out the door and hustling it down the stairs to the locker rooms down on the lobby floor.

From there, they hose down again, climb into the gross black speedos the resort provides as a courtesy, towel up, and head out to the hot spring entrance in the lobby.

Where Mr. Mack is waiting for them.

"Uh…what?" Dean says automatically, when the older man claps them both on the back, wishes them a hearty good morning, and asks if they're ready for their session. With him.

"I thought it was private," Dean intones, and is too disturbed by the thought of climbing into a hot spring with an old, way too cheerful dude to even notice that Cas and his speedo aren't making friends so much as ultimate wedgie enemies.

"It is private, Dean," Mr. Mack assures him, as he strips off his towel with a little too much enthusiasm. "Just you, me, Cas, and a little one on one counseling in the healing waters of Second Chances."

Dean wants to punch someone. Mostly Sam. "Can't it just be me and Cas?" he prompts, hopefully.

Mr. Mack laughs. "Of course not, Dean. The spring has a 100% reconciliation rate. If we left couples in there alone, it would definitely get unhygienic! Plus, I feel your hour will be used most constructively with guided discussion and arbitration, don't you? Now let's go! It's a strict one hour policy, and the McKenzies are scheduled to take this baby at eight sharp."

Mr. Mack herds them through the door and out into the hot spring without another word. Notably, it looks a lot like a hot spring Dean had seen in a Japanese animated porno once, when he'd been surfing the pay-per channels in Vegas and hit the international one by mistake. These, apparently, are the places where vicious gang bangs happen if one isn't careful.

Mr. Mack, apparently unaware of the whole stigma, stretches luxuriously before sliding into the steamy water and beckoning Dean and Cas in after him. "No need to be shy. The whole point of this exercise is to bear our entire beings to one another, isn't it?" he prompts.

Cas eyes the counselor dubiously before stepping down in to the water, and Dean is forced to follow, even though the minute his toe comes in contact with it, the grace vial around his neck gets twitchy and uncomfortable, feeling like it wants to burrow into his skin and hide.

But Cas gives him what must pass for a significant angel-ish look, and Dean grudgingly settles down in the water, sitting across from Cas while Mr. Mack perches on a stone ledge between them, looking expectant. "Well, let's get right down to it, shall we?" he declares, clapping his hands together. "What is it that brought you two here today?"

"Grace," Castiel answers absently, as he settles more deeply in the water, before Dean can kick him under it. The angel has a look of quiet concentration on his face as his chin hits the top of the bath, his hand rooting around underneath for what Dean presumes is where the grace shard is buried.

Mr. Mack is too surprised by the unconventional answer to notice (or call attention to) Castiel's strange bath time behavior. "Grace? Who's that?"

Cas looks like he's going to answer again, but Dean viciously cuts him off. "Our dog!" Dean bites out. "Grace is our dog."

Mr. Mack looks even more confused now. "Your dog… is what brought you here?"

Dean manages a sheepish smile, biting back a yelp as Castiel's hand brushes along the instep of his foot as it roots around at the bottom of the spring. "You know, don't want a broken home for our…Grace. She uh, she deserves better than that."

Mr. Mack takes this in, while Cas's eyebrows are furrowed like he's trying to discover Dean's angle while doing his very best to find the mercy shard. After a minute of rapid back-and-forth facial expressions, the angel reluctantly nods in understanding. "Yes. She is like a child to us."

"Oh, I see. Well yes, of course. That makes sense. A lot of couples come here hoping to reconcile for the sake of their children." Mr. Mack, clearly glad to be back in familiar territory again, takes up that line of reasoning faster than Dean had attacked the shrimp at the buffet last night. "Okay, well, great! Whatever reason brought you here, we're happy to have you, and we're glad that you wanted to try and patch things up between you with our help." He looks back and forth between them, growing serious again. "Now, before we start a dialogue, I want you two to both sit and think for a minute, about a list of reasons that you're dissatisfied with one another. Don't say them out loud for a bit, just close your eyes and think about them."

Dean stares. Mr. Mack waves his hands at him. "Go ahead, Dean. Close your eyes. Think."

Dean grudgingly closes his eyes. Thinks.

"I believe I have found something, Dean," Cas says a moment later. He sounds encouraged.

Dean nearly slumps in relief. "Great. Be merciful and hurry this up, then."

"It is very deeply buried, Dean. And reluctant to make itself known." Castiel sounds as frustrated as Dean feels.

"Good, good, this is good!" Mr. Mack encourages. "Grab a hold of those feelings and pull on them. Like a little thread, unraveling a giant tapestry of pain."

Dean opens his eyes just so he can roll them at that. Meanwhile, Castiel is standing right in the middle of the spring now, speedo discomfort momentarily forgotten as he tries to puzzle out how to invoke the grace in the water's source.

"Uh, Cas, do you want to go first, then?" Mr. Mack asks.

"No," Castiel answers. Then pauses. "Thank you."

Mr. Mack frowns. "Well, that's not conducive to a dialogue, Cas. You have to be willing to share to…"

"I'll share," Dean pipes up, because the more Cas can concentrate on getting the shard out, the less sharing there will be all around. "Can I go first?"

Mr. Mack looks very happy at Dean's voluntarily offering to speak. "Of course. Please, Dean. As I recall, you talked about how Cas cheated on you yesterday during the group hike. Why don't we talk about your feelings with that betrayal first?"

Dean blinks. "Right. Uh, well. Cas cheated."

Mr. Mack makes a cyclical motion with his hand that means _go__on_.

"And… it sucked?" Dean finishes.

"How long had this been going on?" Mr. Mack asks.

Dean thinks. "Uh, a little over a year, I guess. I mean, that I know of." He pauses then, to look thoughtfully at Cas, who also pauses to look vaguely wounded back.

"I have disclosed everything to you since your discovery of my partnership with Crowley, Dean," Castiel butts in, making Dean narrow his eyes.

"Yeah, well, sorry if I can't exactly take everything at face value right now, man," Dean answers. "You lie once and a part of me keeps wondering if you're still doing it or something. Everything we've been through together, everything we've seen and done, the minute you have a problem with something and I'm the _last_ person you talk to about it? That either means you gave up on me or that you stopped caring, Cas. How can I trust someone who feels like that?"

Mr. Mack makes clucking sounds of understanding. "It is very natural to feel that way, Dean. But tell me, do you _want_ to trust Cas again?"

Dean looks at the counselor like he's stupid. "Of course I do. But we don't always get what we want, am I right?" That, at least, is a story he knows really freaking well.

"I think that this is something you could get if you worked towards it, Dean, instead of dismissing it as impossible right off the bat. Obviously, what Cas did really hurt you, and all this anger and mistrust are just signs that mean you still care about him, right?"

Cas tilts his head, like he hadn't thought of it that way. Dean feels inexplicably embarrassed. "Well yeah. He's the one that stopped, isn't he? Nothing changed for me." Dean forces himself to look the angel in the eye, challenging, as he says it.

Mr. Mack smiles. "Pardon me for stepping in, but I think it's obvious to anyone who sees you two together that you _both _still care. It's just going to take some work to communicate and reinforce that. Now, Cas. Why _didn__'__t_ you try to talk to Dean about the problems you were having before you decided to cheat?"

Cas is the one to look embarrassed this time, eyes darting down towards the steam rising up off of the water. "Because I wished for Dean to have the peace he always longed for," he answers after a moment of thought. "Because I did not wish to burden him with my problems because they are not a weight I wanted to put on his shoulders. I thought I would spare him that anguish and I sought to take care of it on my own."

Dean feels inexplicably furious at that, like it's somehow his fault even if he hadn't _known._ "So you ran straight to Crowley instead? Yeah, that makes my life easier, Cas. And the lying? That made it better too."

Castiel winces. "You already know that I did it with the intent of helping ease the burden on you. You already know that your happiness and your safety are always foremost in my mind and that I did not for a moment, wish to abandon you or cease to care about you. That is the reasoning behind my actions and I have explained them to you more than once. I know now that what I did was wrong, and I regret how I have handled them because they caused you pain, but I cannot explain them to you any more than I already have. At the time, they seemed right, Dean."

Dean runs a weary hand over his face. "Jesus, Cas. You never wanted to burden me? You want me to be happy? You think you mean so little to me that I would be happier letting _you_ carry a load like this all on your own? That's bullshit, man. What would you do if you knew I was in a situation like that? Fuck off to a more peaceful life because you didn't want to deal with it? What makes you think I would want to do that to you?"

Cas huffs, but there's a small upturning at the corner of his mouth. "I had not considered it from that perspective. Of course I would not have left you to bear that weight alone."

Dean flushes slightly at that, at all the earnestness there, like Cas never actually _did_ consider it if had been turned around because he'd been too focused on Dean and saving Dean that he couldn't think about anything else. It's not unfamiliar for Cas, and Dean can sympathize with the feeling, knows it inside and out because he's been that guy for Sam since he was four. He sighs, a little rueful, kind of helpless. Something like fondness overwhelms whatever anger he'd been drowning quietly in since Arizona. "Well okay then," he grunts, out loud. "Good. Just so we're clear."

Cas's lips turn up slightly at the corners at that, like he knows exactly what Dean really means anyway.

Meanwhile, Mr. Mack looks triumphant. "I think we've had our first breakthrough of the hour, boys! You know what that means, right?"

Dean and Cas both turn from each other to look at him. "That…you can leave?" Dean offers, hopefully.

Mr. Mack shakes his head. "It means we've made it to our first hug!"

"Hug?" Dean and Cas say, at exactly the same time. Dean's version is slightly tinged with horror though, while Cas's just sounds curious.

"Go on, boys. We now understand each other's feelings, each other's motivations. I think this calls for a hug."

"I don't understand that reasoning," Castiel pipes up, and Dean thinks _thank __god__ for__ him_, not for the first time.

Mr. Mack just looks like he gets that all the time. "I believe that showing that our physical bodies are in harmony with the emotions of our psyches are an important way of reinforcing the things we discover along the way in our session. It's like a bookmark, boys. I want you to remember what you said, but also the things that were felt, the things that were heard and said and smelled and seen and touched in that moment. And what better way to communicate a physical sensation of forgiveness and reconciliation than a hug? Right?"

"No way," Dean protests, while Cas says, "I do not think I have ever been hugged."

Mr. Mack looks at Dean all judgmentally again. "Never?"

Jesus Christ, is this what Sam feels like whenever someone looks at him like he's the antichrist or something?

Dean puts up his hands in surrender. "Fine! Fine. This is us hugging." Dean stands and goes to hug Cas before Mr. Mack starts to psychoanalyze _that_ whole statement. He grabs Cas around the shoulders and pulls him in for a manly one-two pat and quick release.

Except that the minute they're in proximity, Cas's arms go around Dean again, kind of like they had when they'd woken up this morning, except with a lot more skin-on-skin action and a lot more determined (conscious) purpose this time.

"Oh," Cas says after a moment, sounding like he's just had some sort of revelation. "This is…nice." Dean is torn between shoving the angel backwards and running away or pulling him closer, because holy shit, Cas really never _has_ been hugged. No wonder he's been acting out, or something.

Dean kind of feels like a jerk again.

So he doesn't end up running in the end, just sighing to himself about _his__ life_ as he eventually just wraps his arms around the angel full on, letting his hands rest clasped together at the small of Cas's back. Between them, Dean feels the vial of grace thrum happily, maybe for the first time since truth and Georgia all those thousands of miles east.

His arms around Cas like that seems to be some sort of permission given or something, because while they're pressed up close like that, Cas lets himself rest his head on Dean's shoulder and breathes in deep. And just when it's about to get a hair uncomfortable, Dean hears the angel murmur, "I am sorry, Dean," too softly for Mr. Mack to hear. It echoes like a scream in Dean's ears though.

He finds himself squeezing Cas a little tighter without meaning to and murmuring, "Don't worry about it, Cas. I get it. I do."

And he means it.

Cas shudders then, and Dean frowns, and before Mr. Mack can have a party in honor of their success, the ground starts to shake and bubble and a flash of light like a photograph being taken explodes upward at them, through the bottom of water. It makes the soles of Dean's feet tingle.

Cas gasps audibly, and Dean looks him in the eye just in time to see the very center of his pupils glowing white before he stumbles and nearly falls, except for Dean's arms around him holding him determinedly up.

"Cas? Cas?" Dean prompts, when Cas's knees give out from under him. "Hey, Cas!"

"Is everything okay boys?" Mr. Mack chimes in, sounding a bit shaken himself. "Was that an earthquake?"

"Yeah, uh, probably," Dean manages, as Cas lolls in his arms a little, his skin flushed and hot as he pants against Dean's shoulder like well… like something Dean saw in a Japanese animated porno once. "Uh, I think Cas has had a little too much steam, man. Heat must be getting to him."

Mr. Mack shakes his head a bit dazedly. "Right! Right, that happens all the time. Uh, why don't we just take him out for a bit and let him get some air?"

"Yeah, that sounds good," Dean says quickly, and has Cas's arm up over his shoulder before Mr. Mack can offer to help. "I'll just take him back up to our room. I think uh, I think we're okay now. Thanks for the help, Mack."

"But we still have thirty minutes!" Mr. Mack calls after him.

Dean ignores him and gets Cas back inside.

He tries not to think about how the vial of grace against his chest feels oddly cold for the first time.

* * *

By the time they reach the hotel room Castiel feels relatively stable again, the impact of the mercy shard fittingly less jarring than either wrath or truth. Dean hovers anyway, hand absently clasping the vial of grace around his neck as he eyes the angel warily, like he expects Castiel to expire any second now.

"I am getting stronger with each subsequent piece, not overflowing, as you fear," Castiel reassures Dean gently, heartened after their encounter in the spring. "The initial burn upon absorption is less painful than it was before."

Dean pauses in his absent pacing to look dubious. "Yeah, okay. I mean, it's good that you didn't get knocked on your ass completely this time, I guess," he offers.

Castiel stretches out a little on the bed and gets comfortable. "Though perhaps more rest will help me recover more quickly," he adds, and some of the tension from Dean's shoulders lifts at that.

"Yeah. Good. That's good. I'll head out. Get some breakfast or something while you rest."

Castiel is not feeling particularly sleepy or hungry at the moment, and the bed seems less inviting than it had earlier that morning, but he pulls the blankets up slightly anyway, and closes his eyes. "Thank you, Dean," he says.

"Sure," Dean grunts back, and closes the door softly behind him.

Castiel leans back against a pillow that smells faintly of Dean and lets himself bask in the relief of forgiveness. He falls asleep very quickly.


	9. Chapter 8

**Eight**

A day later and Cas seems to be a million times better; whatever happened with the angel and Dean at Second Chances seems to have been good for him if not Dean, who is constantly bitching about the memory of the robo-people and the fact that everyone at the retreat had been judging him with their eyes like he's the worst human being on the planet because they'd clearly misinterpreted all the crazy stuff Cas had been saying.

Statements like that are usually when Cas chimes in with something sickening and sweet about how awesome Dean is that then descends into some sort of meaningful staring contest, but right now Cas is testing the limits of his almost-half mojo and thus is not present to play his role of Guardian of the Eldest Winchester's Ego. Apparently Cas can blink himself short distances now (shorter if he's carrying a Winchester), and can pull out his sword from thin air again, which will probably be useful considering their lives and how they go. Well, at least Sam thinks it will be useful; every time Cas manifests it Dean is too busy looking sideways at it and muttering about how that _isn__'__t_ Cas's sword—not really— because it's definitely _Gabriel__'__s_ and he just _knows_ even though they all look basically exactly the same.

"It is not Gabriel's sword," Castiel had assured him with all reasonableness. "It is an archangel sword. Gabriel is dead and thus no longer has any true belongings."

"Well I don't like it," Dean had persisted.

Castiel had sighed, somehow infinitely patient when all Sam had wanted was to throw books at everyone else in the room that wasn't him because he's basically been the only one looking things up on this magical quest the entire time they've been on it. "This is a good thing, Dean," Cas had insisted. "An archangel sword is significantly more powerful than those belonging to the foot soldiers."

It had made—and still makes—sense to Sam. Castiel had popped out to test his new wings or whatever after that and now Dean is sitting on front of the TV, absently rubbing the vial of grace around his neck and complaining about how there's never anything to watch on TV suddenly. Sam wisely doesn't point out that all the shows are on hiatus except for some of the stuff on the USA network, and Dean isn't allowed to watch any of that anyway, because he keeps wanting to try out Michael Westen spy techniques on hunts and it never goes their way because _monsters __don__'__t __adhere __to __the__ same __basic __psychology __that __people __do_.

Anyway. It is while Dean is channel surfing and Sam is looking up strange phenomena east of Colorado because that is apparently the direction Cas's partial powers are pulling him in when Balthazar pops in unannounced, looking slightly ruffled but otherwise in one piece, which Sam supposes means Raphael hasn't slaughtered everyone on Cas's side yet and isn't yet ready to open the cage and destroy the world.

Dean jumps to his feet and curses at the sight of the unfamiliar angel. "I thought you weren't supposed to be able to find us!" he protests, looking at Balthazar suspiciously.

Balthazar rolls his eyes at him. "I asked Bobby where you were."

Dean frowns. "And he just told you?"

Balthazar smirks. "I'm sorry. I meant I asked Bobby where you were and then I read his mind. You all really do need to remember your list of angel powers, boys. This kind of mental deficiency isn't really flattering to either of your characters."

"I figured that's what you did," Sam pipes up, in his own defense.

Dean just glares. "What do you want, Balthazar?"

The angel who is very obviously _not_ in a trench coat or in love with a Winchester sneers at Dean's belligerent tone. "World peace," he begins, eyes flinty. "A French prostitute with both male and female parts. To bash your head into a wall over and over and over again and not have Cassy pout at me about it afterwards. But those are off the list for the moment because I am busy commanding garrisons of my siblings in a war that I want nothing to do with. So for the moment, I suppose all that I want that is actually feasible is to see my brother. If you haven't killed him that is. Again."

Dean seriously looks like he's contemplating punching the angel, which will not only get him a broken hand, but a smug Balthazar and what Sam surmises is a pouting Cas.

"He's out flying," Sam intercedes, before the manly pissing contest of who likes Cas best reaches even more stupid heights.

Balthazar's eyebrows lift slightly at that. "So it's working then? He's… taking in the archangel bits without any problems?" he asks, and sounds genuinely relieved for a moment.

Dean seems to sense it too, and even if he can't like the smarmy bastard, he can at least appreciate that he does have Cas's best interests at heart. "Yup. Three down. Four to go," he says brusquely, obviously unaware as his hand automatically goes up to brush against the vial of Cas's grace.

Balthazar notices and frowns a little, stepping into Dean's personal space so he can examine the vial more closely.

Dean scowls and takes a backwards step right away. It is much faster and more decisive than any of the times Sam has seen his brother do the same with Cas whenever Cas gets into his personal space bubble. Balthazar doesn't seem to care though, hand darting out to pull the vial out from under Dean's shirt.

"Hey!" Dean yelps. Balthazar ignores him, studying Cas's grace carefully, brow furrowed, lips turned slightly downward in a thoughtful frown.

"What?" Dean demands after a moment, tone belligerent as the angel continues to ignore him in light of watching the small swirl of grace feebly rotating in front of him.

Eventually, Balthazar's features soften just a bit around the edges. "Hello, pretty," he says, voice soft.

Dean looks highly uncomfortable. "Uh…"

But then the grace in the vial gives a soft flare—of recognition, maybe—glowing brighter just for a brief moment at Balthazar's gentle greeting.

Dean's discomfort fades and he starts to get belligerent again, though in a wholly different manner this time. "What the hell was that?" he demands.

Balthazar sneers at him. "I thought I told you to _take __care__ of__ this,_" he intones like he's talking to a small, slow child, tracing his index finger along the glass between him and Castiel's grace. "Were the words I used to big for you to comprehend?"

Dean, having enough of that, finally yanks the vial back on the cord and protectively tucks it into his shirt again. "What the hell do you think I've been doing?" he snipes back. "I haven't let it out of my damn sight. I don't even freakin' poop without it."

"Yes, and your pooping sessions have all been very nurturing, I'm sure. I mean look at your first attempt to take care of something." He eyes Sam, and Sam immediately resents that statement. "Seems like the results of your best efforts are death, the end of the world, again. Wonderful."

Dean and Sam both scowl at him now. "Well if we're doing such a bad job, why don't _you_ take the grace? We don' need it anymore," Sam suggests.

"What? No way!" Dean balks and turns that scowl of his from Balthazar to Sam, like Sam is the bad guy here (again). Sam shrugs, because obviously, he has no idea what Dean expects from him here.

"Believe me," Balthazar cuts in, sounding almost regretful, "if I could fulfill that function I'd take that from you whether you wanted me to or not. But Cassy insisted that you have it, and that means my hands are tied. The most I can do is despair when you take such poor care of all the nice things you get."

Dean blinks, touching his chest where the grace sits against his skin. "What, so…I'm right, right? It looks kinda…different lately. I mean…smaller?"

Balthazar snorts. "Oh, so you did notice. I suppose that is something."

"What does it mean?" Sam pushes, because he'd really thought Dean had just been being paranoid about the grace thing, like an overprotective first time parent freaking out every time their baby sneezes or something.

"It means that Castiel is destroying himself for you _again_. I hope you can appreciate it the what, third time around? Fourth?"

Dean's expression flashes with an angry sort of guilt, the kind Sam knows means his brother's more pissed at himself than he is with the asshole angel currently glaring at him. Balthazar seems to figure this out too because he pauses, sighs. "Just know, Dean, that if my brother is lost because of this, the world burns either way," Balthazar murmurs. "Everything will be for naught."

"Uh, we're doing this so it won't," Sam interrupts. "Once Cas is powerful enough to beat Raphael it'll be over. Won't it?"

Balthazar turns to look at him with eyes like the kind people use when they pity a dumb puppy or see starving kids in Africa on the TV that they can't actually help. "Right. Yes, life really is always that simple for you, isn't it?" he drawls, and Sam is about to ask him exactly what he means except that there's a flutter and a whoosh, or _whatever_ that noise is whenever Cas appears.

Though this time it is accompanied by a bit of a stumble, as Castiel had apparently over-launched himself from wherever he'd just been, testing out the limitations on his newly gathered abilities.

"Balthazar," Castiel breathes, when he sees his brother in the room, even as he braces against Dean to keep his balance on the landing.

"Castiel…" Balthazar murmurs, attention ripped from Dean and eyes going wider at the sight of his brother. He takes an involuntary step backwards, away from Dean and the other angel.

"Is something the matter?" Castiel asks, brow furrowing, eyes going concerned.

Balthazar shakes his head after a beat, looking a little disoriented. Sam is pretty sure if angels sweated, Balthazar would have nervous perspiration all over his face and neck for the strange eyes he's giving Cas. "Er, no. I just… I didn't recognize you right away, is all, Cassy," he says, voice a bit rough, like he's still kind of startled at whatever sight Castiel makes with his pieces of archangel grace. "It's the new look for you, I guess. That's uh…that's nearly half, then? From the looks of things?"

"Yes, nearly," Castiel answers, while Balthazar keeps looking at his chest like he dripped ketchup on his shirt or something and he needs to find the spot before the stain sets. "It is… strange, but please know that I believe this is our best chance to resolve our conflict with Raphael without further bloodshed."

"Er…good. Great then," Balthazar answers, forcing a smile even as he's taking another step back, stumbling in a very un-angel like manner against the edge of one of the hotel room's double beds.

"How is the war effort faring?" Castiel asks next, looking Balthazar over in turn. "You seem… worn."

Balthazar's awkward smile turns into more of a scoff at the reminder. "Worn? Yes, well, I suppose you could say that," he drawls, running a hand through his hair. "I should really be getting back to the warfront too; it just never stops with our brothers. Father's will this, Castiel's resurrection that, humans are disgusting, paradise is nigh, blah, blah, blah; you know how it is. I just came to warn you."

Dean steps in then, because clearly if there are dire warnings at hand, Balthazar should have opened with them instead of all the judgmental douchery he'd decided to go with before. "Warn us about what?"

Balthazar doesn't bother acknowledging Dean again. "My sources are reporting that ever since you rescinded your little agreement with Crowley, he's been courting Raphael, my dear. Rebounding pretty hard, from the sounds of things, chocolates, flowers, virgin sacrifices, the whole bloody nine yards. He's even trying to sweet talk big brother with the same sales pitch he reeled you in with, from what I can gather. Split that purgatory cookie in half and share the chocolately goodness inside with his friends, or some such thing."

Well that sucks. "What could teaming up with Raphael actually offer him in return?" Sam asks, puzzled. "I thought Crowley didn't want the world to end."

Balthazar shrugs. "Maybe once he gets half the power of purgatory the world won't matter anymore. I don't really care why he's doing anything, to tell you the truth. All I know is that it's a concerted effort now, children, and Cassy here is officially number one on both Heaven and Hell's most wanted lists."

Sam sighs. That definitely doesn't help things; if Raphael and Crowley's goons are after them it's one thing, but if they're _working__ together_ instead of fighting each other along the way that's another thing altogether. Sam definitely doesn't want to imagine what kind of power Raphael will have if he and Crowley actually do crack open the door to Purgatory in the meantime either. "So what do we do?"

Balthazar does that _stupid__ human_ face at him. "Despite how easy Cassy here made it seem, Winchesters, I'm drawn a little thin. I shouldn't even be here, and I definitely can't be part of your entitled royal we." He turns back to Castiel then, reaching out like he wants to put a hand on his brother's shoulder before pulling it back at the last minute, like he just can't anymore.

"I er, I just wanted to give you the heads up to be a little more careful, brother. Seems like you're quite the big deal item right now. The one force in the universe that can unite Heaven and Hell, or something." He smiles a little at that, and Castiel answers in like, and Sam is pretty sure he sees Dean giving Balthazar an even bigger stink eye than normal when they do.

But then Balthazar is twitching like he's getting some disturbing images broadcasted to him from angel radio, and after a moment, he nods at Cas a bit stiffly. "Right. I'm off then. Stay safe, Castiel." That said, Balthazar gives Dean one more unreadable look before he disappears in a rush of air.

"Asshole," Dean mutters, once he's gone.

Castiel looks reproachfully at Dean. "It is through his efforts that we have the chance to pursue Gabriel's grace at all, Dean."

Dean looks shifty as he turns to Sam. "Speaking of, where's the next piece, Sam?" he barks gruffly, because talking about Balthazar annoys the crap out of him and apparently the best way to deal with it is to make Sam do a lot of talking.

Sam tosses a few newspapers and magazines at his brother. "This is what I've got."

Dean frowns at the _High__ School __Football __Quarterly_ issue displaying a bunch of sweaty looking teenage boys in red jerseys. The caption across the page reads "St. Sebastian Saints Go For Gold Again!" while an older, hard-featured gentlemen stands off to the side, holding what looks to be a sizable trophy. "Football, Sammy? Really? I always thought you were more of a soccer kind of man."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I think I found us faith, Dean."

As it turns out, it's in the last place anyone would ever think to look for it.

It's in Ohio.

* * *

"Apparently the school's football team got incredibly good in the last three years out of the blue, with the arrival of this guy," Sam pauses to indicate the frowny dude on the front of the football magazine, "Coach Arnold Griffin. They've finally had winning seasons after consistently being in the bottom five percent of the national rankings in their division. They're still early in the playoffs right now, but according to every major magazine and online football resource, they're heavily favored to win state."

Dean snorts from behind the wheel. "So what, every team that wins a state championship is doing it with some sort of miracle grace juicing the players? Doesn't sound like what we're looking for, Sammy."

"It's the only thing that fits, Dean," Sam insists. "Plus, check this out."

Dean watches out of the corner of his eye as his nerdy brother starts flipping rapidly through the magazine again. "They've got a school superstition. There's a statue of St. Sebastian outside of the school and every game day, the entire team has to go and touch the statue's feet and pray for victory. The principal is quoted here as saying '_God __rewards __faith __with__ victory_.' Which is exactly the sort of thing we're looking for." Sam flips a few more pages in the article. "Apparently when Coach Griffin first started working at the school, he'd go out and brush his hand over the base of the statue before each game. The first time he did that, they miraculously defeated the number two seeded team in their district. The second time he did it, they broke a twenty-five year losing streak for their homecoming game. Now it's a pregame tradition to touch the statue for luck for all the players on _all_ of the St. Sebastian sports teams."

Dean holds up his hand to stop his brother before he can do any more fact finding. "Okay, okay. It's worth checking out. Cas? What about you? Feel like the right direction?"

"Yes," Castiel answers from the backseat, as he absently munches on a candy bar Sam had bought him at the last gas station. "I enjoy this," he adds, apropos to nothing.

Dean winces at the sight of Cas noshing on candy through the rearview; Dean likes his Butterfinger as much as the next guy, but for some reason, the sight of Cas indulging turns his stomach slightly; maybe it's the fact that he's probably getting little orange crumbs all over the backseat or maybe it's because it's like the ghost of Gabriel possessing their angel or something. The grace around his neck seems to agree that things in the universe are generally out of place right now.

Cas, seeing that Dean is watching him intently through the mirror, pauses and offers the remainder of the candy bar to Dean. "Did you want some?" he asks, very considerately.

Dean finds himself saying yes just so he can finish it for the angel.

* * *

"St. Sebastian and the grace of God have given us their football blessings," Headmaster McCann explains to the college sports writers that Dean, Sam, and Castiel are supposedly posing as for the day. "We've been undefeated for as good as three years, barring that stretch of time that Coach Griffin had to take leave of absence, naturally," the older gentleman prattles, as he takes the new arrivals past the impressive trophy display and towards the boys' locker room. "But even without the coach, we still only lost one game, and a close one at that."

"Yeah, we know all about that," Sam assures the headmaster politely after about twenty straight minutes of his nearly indecipherable gushing. "Um, what we were mostly wondering about is the statue by the field? Do you think it would be okay if we went and took a look at it?"

Headmaster McCann smiles widely, cheeks ruddy with mirth. "Well of course! It's right in front of the entrance to the field. I was going to take you boys by it anyway. It's our pride and joy, you know." He bustles ahead of them down the hallway at that, pure enthusiasm making up for short legs as he waves them on.

As they make their way past the lockerooms and the basketball gym, a couple of teenage boys in red and white uniforms bustle out, laughing raucously about something or other on their way to the field. Castiel pauses to let them pass when they don't even notice him. They are large for their age and full of energy, and Castiel's attention is drawn to one boy in particular who holds court at the center of the throng with his golden hair, his easy smile, and a swagger that reminds the angel of Dean's. His jersey has the number seven written boldly across the back, and he holds a helmet easily under one hand while being flanked by another rather plain looking boy his own age, who is not quite as tall as Sam but much broader in the shoulders than the younger Winchester. The second boy carries himself as if he's awkward in his own body, trying to shrink himself as they walk despite his massive size and potentially menacing presence.

"I'm telling you guys, I feel it," the blond crows confidently, unmindful of how uncomfortable the larger boy beside him seems to be in his own skin. "Tomorrow night? My hundredth career TDP."

"Yeah, if Cam doesn't fall on you again," one of the other members snorts, and the large, broad shouldered boy with the number seventy on his jersey starts in embarrassment.

Number seven scoffs. "Whatever, I could have all 240 pounds of him on top of me and still make a throw. Right, Cam?"

"Right, Darren," number seventy answers quickly, voice low, shy.

"Jesus, Cam, sound less convinced," the blond drawls. "You're harshing my pregame buzz, assface. Some enthusiasm would be nice."

Number seventy somehow shrinks even more on himself. "Sorry, Darren," he says, and prompts the blond to roll his eyes.

"Whatever. Let's go, or coach will make us run laps." Number seven pauses to poke seventy in his slightly protruding gut. "I know how much you hate that, man."

The others laugh and then the boys are off again, racing down the hallway and nearly bumping into the headmaster and Sam on their way out. It leaves number seventy alone in the hall for a moment, before he frowns and lumbers after his teammates, Castiel watching him curiously the entire time.

"Cas, you coming or what?" Dean calls back do him from down the hallway, perched at the threshold of the door to the field and looking at the angel curiously. "You okay?"

"Yes," Castiel answers, and goes to catch up.

* * *

After Cas is finished dawdling in the hallways like a creeper, they finally make it outside to the lawn; the early Midwestern summer is already humid and gross with a thickness in the air that says it's just going to get worse as they get to the tail end of May, right on the cusp of summer vacation. Dean can hear activity off in the distance that means kids are already practicing in the heat of the afternoon, the tennis team at the top of the hill, the track team drilling on the edges of the field, the cheerleaders going through steps by the bleachers. Directly in front of them is a rather imposing bronze statue of St. Sebastian, which the Headmaster stops and preens in front of like it is a favorite child. "Come, come, take a look," he urges them happily, gesturing to the likeness and beaming with pride. "The namesake of our school and the saint who watches over each of our successes."

"Saint of athletes, archers, soldiers. He was often appealed to during times of plague," Castiel supplies absently, as he goes up to the statue and rests a hand on its feet, closing his eyes in preparation for some sort of freaky grace leakage. Dean feels the muscles in his chest tense instinctively when Cas touches the statue, waiting for that weird recoil the grace around his neck makes him feel whenever they manage to find a thread of Gabriel's grace and yank on it like they plan on unraveling a sweater.

But nothing happens. Dean blinks in surprise.

"Yes, yes," the headmaster continues absently, hands clasped together and raised towards the countenance of the saint. "A very strong man, St. Sebastian. A survivor."

"He was shot full of arrows on Diocletan's order and survived, only to publically denounce the Emperor in retaliation and subsequently beaten to death," Castiel says unnecessarily, as he removes his hand from the statue with a frown. "Not a survivor necessarily, but a brave man despite his faults."

The headmaster coughs. "Yes, well. Christianity was greatly persecuted in those days. He would not stand for the oppression, though."

Castiel opens his mouth to say something else, but Dean steps in with a pointed, "Fascinating. So, the field is this way?"

"Oh, yes. The team should already be at work preparing for tomorrow night, as you saw, but I'm sure coach Griffin won't mind speaking with you afterwards, if you don't mind waiting."

"We don't mind at all," Sam says kindly, while Dean and Cas drop back a little bit.

"Anything?" Dean asks under his breath, hand brushing the vial of grace under his shirt when he feels no reaction from it either way. "Your grace hasn't really been talking much lately, man. Not unless we're right on top of a new piece, anyway, and right now I got nothing."

"Gabriel's grace is here," Castiel assures him, looking slightly puzzled. "I could feel its residue along the surface of statue, but the piece itself is either no longer there or I have so little faith left that I cannot draw it out properly." His frown is a frown of disappointment, probably in himself, knowing Cas.

Dean looks thoughtful. "Hey, it took some effort to pull out the other pieces, right? We probably just need to sweet talk it out again. Find the right angle of attack, or something."

"Hmmm," Castiel answers, though doesn't sound convinced. Dean isn't entirely convinced either.

By then they've followed Headmaster McCann and Sam to the field, the bleachers are already full despite it just being a practice. Some parents are even taping their kids or just cheering them on as the players stretch and jump and mentally prepare for drills happening on the field. Dean recognizes the grizzled, stern-faced older gentleman from all the magazine articles standing quietly to the side, occasionally grunting commands and observing each of his players with a level of concentration Dean has only seen in Castiel when the angel is watching TV with Dean and trying to figure out what the hell is so intriguing about _Dr.__Sexy__ MD._

Cas seems to be watching the coach with interest too, which makes Dean curious, but it only lasts up until the coaches hustle the team back into rows on the field so they can do some awful looking spot drills.

"Well?" Sam asks them, once he's managed to pry himself away from the headmaster's effusive praise for their establishment. "Is it here or what?"

"It's here," Castiel tells him. "Somewhere."

Sam looks at Cas curiously. "Okay. So, where, exactly?"

Cas twitches in that way that means he's irritated with Sam's stupid questions. Dean knows that face a little too well. "The air is teeming with faith, and for some reason I am unable to pinpoint the shard's exact location. I worry that my faith is no longer strong enough to present a more amicable resting place to the grace than this school. I was unable to coax it out."

Sam sighs. "Yeah, and making deals with demons probably doesn't help the whole faithful servant thing either," he throws out in, what Dean thinks, is a completely unnecessary manner. Castiel's expression gets even more troubled as a result, and that doesn't help anything.

"Whatever. We shouldn't take it now anyway, because there's going to be a game tomorrow night. It would suck if we jacked these kids' mojo right before they're supposed to play right?" Dean pipes up, throwing a pointed _cut__that__out_ look to Sam when Cas isn't watching.

"So what do you propose we do?" Castiel asks him.

Dean shrugs. "I don't know, let's investigate a little more. Maybe someone has a story or something that can help us pinpoint where the piece we're looking for actually is. Looks like the statue's just superstition or something."

Sam sighs. "I guess it's as good a plan as any." Frown. "I thought Cas's grace was supposed to be attracted to it. It's not telling you anything?"

Dean shrugs helplessly. "Like I told Cas, it's been pretty quiet since we got mercy. If it's talking, it's definitely not to me."

Castiel eyes the spot on Dean's chest where the vial is resting, just beneath his t-shirt. "Perhaps the proximity of the three pieces of grace we already have are confusing it," he theorizes. "The spell we used was meant to help detect Gabriel's grace. However, now that there are three pieces of Gabriel's grace inside of me, maybe it is reacting to those rather than the loose shards we have not found yet." He's frowning like his grace has betrayed him or something, and Dean has to squash an impulse to tell Cas to lay the hell off of it, it's doing the best it can.

Or he hopes it is, anyway, and the reason it's not saying anything isn't because of what Balthazar had been talking about when he'd popped in on them back in Colorado.

"Makes sense," Sam answers Cas, before nudging Dean with his elbow and gesturing towards a man in a red Saints' warm up picking up loose equipment on the sidelines. "There's the assistant coach," he murmurs, getting a glint in his eye that means he thinks it's smarter to try and talk to the underlings and maybe work their way up from there. "Think we should try to get our first official interview?"

"As good a time as any, I guess," Dean answers, and the brothers share a look before stalking forward towards the man holding a sack full of pads under one arm and what looks to be a basket of empty water bottles in the other.

* * *

Castiel lingers behind for a moment, still trying to figure out some sort of pattern to the residue of faith he finds wafting through the air around them; he supposes that the air, like the waters of hot spring that had held the mercy shard, is capable of diffusing the grace's influence, in fact, is supposed to, as Death had stated. He worries then, that this means the faith shard is close to being weak enough to reintegrate into Heaven. If it were to do that, this entire plan would be lost. He is not sure if that possibility is more troubling than the fact that his inability to draw out the shard might truly stem from his own complete lack of faith in his Father.

Meanwhile, he hears Dean's voice rise above the general noise of the gathered audience, as he and Sam corner the man holding the very large box of water bottles.

Castiel follows, catching up until he is at Dean's side and quietly watching the man do the mundane task of picking up after the players.

"Excuse me!" Dean calls out, friendly as ever. "I know you're probably busy planning for tomorrow's big game, but I was wondering if my partners and I could just get a quote for the article we're doing on your team?"

"Uh, sure," the hapless assistant coach manages, looking between one bright Winchester smile to the next and then to Castiel, who does not smile, but attempts to look less foreboding, as Dean had taught him to. "I mean, as much as I can," the assistant adds, tearing his eyes away from Castiel's intent stare. "Reckon you folks should be talking to Coach Griff about these things though…"

"Every part of a team is important, right?" Dean tells him smoothly. "Mostly, we just want to know what you think about the whole phenomenon with the statue and God blessing your team. We've got a lot of people telling us that it's a sign from Heaven that your team is winning."

The assistant coach frowns a little bit. "You boys sound like you been talking to Headmaster McCann."

Dean's expression doesn't change. "It shows, huh?"

"Little bit."

"So what, you don't agree with the headmaster?"

The assistant shrugs. "I don't know if I believe that God or the Saints are sitting up there, granting favor over something as simple as football. Great game, but still just a game in the grand scheme of things, right? Figure God and the angels and such all got more important things to worry about than whether or not we win or lose every Friday night," he admits.

"So what _do_ you think it is?" Sam presses, tone gentle in a way that suggests the other man can confide in him absolutely.

"Me? I think it's the obvious stuff, really. We're winning because of Coach Griffin and the players," the assistant says simply. "It's a lot of hard work and dedication to get you in a position to win a game, and then to actually win, it's more than that. After that it's about believing in yourself and your teammates, on and off the field, that pushes you over the finish line. Least, that's what I was raised to believe."

"Yeah, but doesn't every team try do that?" Sam asks. "What do you think your team does differently that makes them actually win?"

"Pardon if this is kind of a rude, but I think our team just has more faith in each other than your average team. No question about it."

Dean and Sam share a look, while Castiel wonders how a person who is not in tune with angelic grace can make such an accurate assumption.

"What do you mean more faith?" Sam urges.

"Exactly how it sounds, I guess. We just believe in each other." Pause. Frown. "I mean, three years ago, originally, the know-it-alls who write the papers on these things predicted we'd come in second to last in our district and completely get phased outta state. All the reporters, all the scouts, they practically guaranteed it even before we'd even played a single game together. But Coach wouldn't let anyone on the team listen to those prophecies; he guaranteed that they wouldn't come true so long as we believed in our own selves and as long as we stayed together through whatever providence threw at us, we'd pull through despite the odds. All we gotta do is lean on each other when it gets too hard to stand on our own."

"Heavy," Dean says, after a minute, and the coach flashes him a rueful grin.

"Not really. I'm just rambling on, I guess. Short of it is, having faith in God and St. Sebastian and divine intervention are all well and good in their own way, but Coach always says that he believes God allowed humans to grow so plentiful so that they could have faith in each other as well, and not just in Him. Especially since people don't ever get to speak to or see God while they're alive. All we got for this lifetime is the people around us, right?" He pauses, scratches at his chin ruefully. "When you think about it like that, maybe the way we come together is the closest we'll ever get to experiencing God on this mortal plain."

"That's… a really uplifting way to look at it," Sam says with a small smile. "Thank you for your time."

"Thank you," the assistant says, and tips his hat before hustling off to take charge of a series of drills.

It leaves the three of them standing alone along the sidelines, just in time for Castiel to see the enormous hulk of number seventy again, as he stumbles over his own feet while trying to jog in place. Several of the other players laugh at him, some calling out "earthquake alert!" or "self-pancake!" in the process and making the boy flush with embarrassment. He gets up and starts all over again anyway, though, too determined to give up even in the face of such universal disdain.

Watching them like that, he is not sure if the assistant coach's words coincide with what he is seeing amongst the team.

Why then, would faith choose this place, these people, to dwell amongst?

He isn't allowed to let his thoughts linger on these things though, as Dean puts a guiding hand on the small of his back and nudges him up the stairs alongside the bleachers. Castiel, feeling something akin to frustrated despair, allows himself to be led.

* * *

Sam's attempts to talk to the coach after practice don't yield much success except a reiteration of everything the assistant coach had already said, and then a brusque, almost Castiel-like dismissal when he excuses himself and the rest of his staff to the office so they can watch tape in preparation for tomorrow's game. Cas and Dean are off together in the meantime, unsuccessfully interviewing a few of the players, though members of the faculty and some of the parents picking up their kids after practice eye the guy in the creeper trenchcoat who is staring a little too intently at their kids, which is what Sam is blaming Dean's lack of success on.

"Nada," Dean grunts afterwards, when they're back out at the car. "All the kids just think touching the statue is a stupid superstition, but they do it because the headmaster and everyone else expects them to."

Sam crosses his arms thoughtfully. "Yeah, the coach didn't have much to say about the statue either, just that he started going out to the statue to pray for his daughter when she got sick, and people saw him and assumed it was for the games."

Castiel tilts his head sideways, birdlike. "Did his daughter recover? If she did, perhaps we are looking in the wrong place for the grace shard. Perhaps the residue I detected on the statue was carried by the coach from his home."

Sam shakes his head, having already taken that into consideration. "I don't think so. His daughter died in the cancer ward at the children's hospital two years ago."

Dean winces. "Okay, then what? Because all I'm learning from this is that whoever's in charge of faith needs some serious priority fixing."

Sam doesn't argue with that, but being angry about it isn't getting them anywhere on the search. "Look," he says, while Dean glowers into the middle distance a little, which is Dean's other super power, (you know, the one that _isn__'__t_ getting angels of the lord to do whatever he wants like he's the Angel Whisperer or something). "The headmaster invited us to the game tomorrow night. He said we could even come sit on the sidelines to observe if want, if it would help us write the article. Maybe things change in an actual competitive situation? I mean, we just saw them practice a bit today and heard some nice sentiments from the faculty, but all of it was theoretical, right? Maybe the shard needs like, actual competitive juices to feed off of before we can find it." He pulls the tickets the headmaster had given him earlier out of his pocket and waves them at his brother and his brother's angel.

"Hmm," Castiel murmurs, which isn't encouraging or discouraging either way on its own, but when combined with the faint flicker of doubt in his eyes, Sam begins to wonder if Cas's own faith really is shot to shit after all. That does not bode well for their plans if that's the case. Either way, Cas doesn't look like he thinks watching a football game will help them either way, and is about to say so until he catches Dean looking at the tickets in Sam's hand out of the corner of his eye.

It's just a flash of interest, really, barely there and gone again in an instant, but of course Cas notices— he always does when it comes to Dean—and after that, the decision is as good as made.

"Sam's theory holds weight," the angel concedes eventually, and it is a bald faced lie if Sam has ever heard one (and apparently he has, a lot of which have come from Castiel himself).

But Dean just says, "Sweet," with some uncharacteristic brightness in his tone before grabbing and pocketing the tickets as they get back to the Impala. Once inside, he turns the engine on and declares that he's starved, prompting Castiel and Sam share a look, one that Sam imagines has them giving each other mirrored expressions of resigned fondness. They climb in after him, and Sam hopes that an angel's faith is as easy to restore as it is for Dean to bend an angel to his will.

Actually, they'll probably be okay if it's only half as easy as that.

* * *

Football turns out to be a big deal in town and despite being an hour early to kickoff, the bleachers are already full when Dean, Castiel, and Sam arrive. Sam's expression automatically falls when he realizes that they aren't early enough to sneak another interview with the coach. Luckily, they get waylaid by the headmaster anyway, and end up getting to sit down at the end of the players' bench with him as the team warms up on the field, the red-faced old man happily chattering into Sam's ear about how this is the game with their cross town rivals the Romans, and how it's really a big deal. Sam looks politely interested as the headmaster effuses at him about the historical appropriateness of a dramatic face-off between the Saints and the Romans, while Dean balances a box of nachos, a very large soda, and a giant foam hand with the Saints' mascot emblazoned across it on his lap. Castiel folds his hands into his own lap and observes the players, the coaches, and the atmosphere in general, trying very hard to locate the point of origin that all this diluted faith is coming from.

In front of them, the players line up, pumping fists, banging chests, grunting and cursing and preparing themselves for their football. Castiel feels his eyes stray onto the familiar numbering of player seventy again, as he stands behind number seven just like always, quiet, thoughtful, just a little bit apart from the others.

"Jesus, Cam," number seven barks when he sees number seventy standing outside the circle of his court, "what are you trying to do, jinx us? Get your fat ass over here, man."

"Right, Darren," Cam answers, and jogs over to the rest of the offense as they stand facing each other and pile their gloved hands on top of one another in a large, black-gloved heap.

"Crush them on three!" Darren shouts, voice going hard and serious around the edges in the blink of an eye, suddenly becoming a very different creature from the bright, carefree young thing Castiel had seen the day before, strolling down the hallway with his admirers and bragging about his exploits. He is a leader in this moment suddenly, somehow, one whom the others put their faith in to lead them to victory. "One, two, three, CRUSH THEM!" the boys all shout obediently as one, and then turn and secure their helmets, preparing for battle. Even Cam, bulky and uncomfortable in his own skin, seems fiercer now, when he is granted purpose.

Whistles blow and the game gets underway.

Beside him, Dean whoops in encouragement before turning to Castiel and rattling off some explanation of what is about to happen, using more terms than usual that the angel does not recognize.

"Kickoff, Cas," Dean explains. "They flip a coin, winner elects to kick or receive, and then the receiving side gets essentially four tries to make ten yards until they either can't or they get past that line at the end."

Castiel isn't sure what many of those things mean, but Dean is enthusiastically reciting them to him in his periphery as the coin goes up in the air, like his understanding of the game will somehow help them find the faith shard in the midst of all this chaos.

St. Sebastian wins the toss. They elect to receive.

From there, the match itself is interesting when he looks at it as a strictly regulated form of theoretical battle, each side adjusting to the other side's strengths and weaknesses within the allotted time, trying to take advantage of those strengths and weaknesses in order to push through the enemy lines just a little bit more. Dean points out things like blitzes and sneaks and pass rushing that Castiel does not understand except that they are exciting somehow, to Dean and to most of the crowd gathered in the stands. It is with some admiration that Castiel understands what this game is doing the more he watches it, how it can serve as a means to mold arrogant, wild spirits like number seven—Darren—into charismatic leaders, and how the group mentality can give perpetual outsiders like number seventy—Cam— a sense of belonging when nothing else will.

But beyond that he does not understand why faith chose this place to settle, other than it is a religious institution and that the higher echelons of the school's administration seems to believe that God cares about who wins a football game.

The faith that the assistant coach and the coach had both spoken of, faith in each other to win, seems sparse by his estimation of the events; from a technical standpoint St. Sebastian is the far superior team either from physical gifts provided by good genetics or hard work forced upon them by Coach Griffin and the collective expectation of their friends, parents, and teachers. Castiel knows that expectation can be a very motivating thing.

It reminds Castiel of how he had felt once, during the siege in Hell, as he and his garrison had fought their way into the pit in search of Dean's soul. Despite the horrors that he had seen and the comrades that had fallen in the battle, Castiel remembers feeling a sense of surety, of _belief_ that they would succeed, that they would find the Righteous Man and raise him from the fires of perdition. He'd had faith then, in God's plan, in Heaven's will. He was a part of something far larger than just himself. The expectation of everything coming to pass as it should had been strong in him in those harrowing battles, had given him strength to draw from even in the darkest corners of the pit. He wonders how he went from there only to end up the creature he is now, so bereft of faith that sensing the part of it that makes up the grace of an archangel—such an enormous, powerful grace—is difficult.

In the meantime, St. Sebastian scores something called a touchdown, much to everyone on their side's delight, and Darren, being the one to throw the pass, parades himself back onto the sidelines like a king, waving to his accolades and generally looking magnificent in the hot lights of the field, while Cam sweats miserably behind him, tired and without any signs of contributing to the score besides the bruises Castiel can see forming on his arms, from impact after impact after impact with the players of the other team as he'd tried to give Darren the time and protection he had needed to complete his passes within the safety of what Dean is calling the pocket. From what Castiel can discern, Cam's only purpose is to hold off the others until Cameron can rid himself of the ball.

Darren takes his claps on the back and his complements from his sidelined teammates while Cam trudges to the water cooler and starts drinking from the hose like some enormous, exhausted beast. He dribbles liquid down the front of his jersey and the sides of his mouth as he ingloriously slakes his thirst and no one notices except for Castiel. Darren and some of the others eventually make their way over again. Darren is the only one who eyes Cam with an unreadable sparkle of mischief in his eyes.

"Dude, you look like one of those wildebeest on the Discovery Channel," number seven diagnoses after a beat, and some of the other players burst out laughing and slap Cam on his broad backside while Cam turns slightly red and apologizes. He steps out of Darren's way and Darren's expression is enigmatic for a moment before he takes his own drink with far more elegance than his teammate.

Castiel does not see faith behind any of their movements, just Darren's sureness and Cam's mindless deference towards Darren's desire to win, because this hypothetical battle somehow means something important to them in the grand scheme of things.

In the meantime, the other team scores by kicking the ball through the giant pronged apparatus on the other side of the field, and minutes later Darren and Cam are putting their helmets on again in order to repeat the process as necessary: Darren to win and Cam to protect him until he does, with whatever means it takes to get him there.

Something inside of Castiel reacts with familiarity to this scenario as the offense takes the field. He pauses to eye Dean beside him, who is still juggling his ridiculous snack items while shouting at the top of his lungs in equal parts fury and joy.

This has been his sole purpose in the last three years; Dean's safety, Dean's success, Dean's drive to survive in the face of whatever is thrown at them.

And like Cam, Castiel is covered in bruises and tired from his efforts. It is a thankless job, a tiring one, but despite it all, one that he cannot bring himself to give up for a greater meaning that he has yet to fully discern.

Beside him, Dean abruptly boos in outrage as a man in a striped black and white shirt screams something like "Face mask, ref! Face mask!" while others around him chant in agreement.

When Castiel focuses on the field again to see what has gone wrong, he sees Cam lying on the ground, twisted in pain on the sidelines where he had been thrown by an even larger, even fiercer looking boy wearing number sixty-seven in the colors of the opposing team. There are referees running around wildly, whistles blowing, little yellow knots of paper thrown all across the evenly cut and painted grass.

It is in that moment when something truly unexpected happens to Castiel; Darren, without warning, abruptly lunges forward from behind one of the men in black and white, plowing with a roar of righteous fury right into the immense frame of number sixty-seven, a boy perhaps twice his size and weight. Darren snarls furiously as he grasps sixty-seven's jersey in his fists and shoves at him, suddenly transforming from the cool, charming prince to a feral guard dog, barking angrily in sixty-seven's face. "You don't touch him!" Darren shouts at sixty-seven fearlessly, and looks ready to fully attack when his other teammates pull him back fiercely, cursing and forcing him to calm down as a trainer jogs onto the field from the bench and crouches at an unmoving Cam's side.

More whistles blow, penalties are called out, and Coach Griffin looks grim as he calmly tells Darren to take a seat at the end of the bench. Darren balks but obeys— a good soldier in the end despite his inner fury— and parks on the seat closest to where the trainers are helping Cam limp off of the field towards.

Castiel watches that instead, while the crowd continues to boo the referees' decisions and the game goes on, the angel's eyes trained on Darren as he surreptitiously moves himself further and further down the bench and subsequently, closer and closer toward the trainers and his friend. There is a complete loss of his earlier collectedness shining clearly in his young eyes as he waits for news. The sight of it touches something unexpectedly fierce and tender in Castiel's heart.

"Just an ankle sprain," Cam informs Darren when he meets his teammate's eyes a moment later and catches him staring. Darren turns slightly pink and tears his gaze away.

"You dumbass," he mutters back, though the relief in his voice as Cam finishes getting wrapped up and limps over to join him is palpable. "That dude was like three times bigger than you. What the hell were you thinking?"

Cam shrugs. "If he's three times bigger than me he's six times bigger than you, right?" he offers, with a self-deprecating smile. "I knew if I could hold him off a second longer, you'd be able to make that pass."

Darren scowls. "Jesus, Cameron," he mutters, and looks at the ground. "You're such a fucking dumbass."

Cameron leans back, and Castiel thinks he sees fondness in the larger boy's eyes, despite the heated words Darren throws at him by rote. "Yeah," Cameron agrees quietly, and claps Darren on the back of the neck. "You better cool off and head back out. We can't win without you."

Darren relaxes under his friend's hand and bumps his shoulder into Cam's with a sigh. "Of course we'll win. No thanks to you, asshat."

A moment and another series of whistles later, Coach Griffin finally nods at Darren, who puts his helmet back on and jogs out to the field. Cameron watches him go with a sense of certainty that makes something in Castiel spark with familiarity, with a nostalgia that reminds him of a park bench in October lifetimes ago.

From there, Darren plays with added ferocity, a vengeful kind of drive that is determined and unstoppable.

But it isn't until he jogs by the sidelines and gives Cam a smile and a thumbs up that Castiel gets it.

It must show on his face because Dean nudges him with an elbow at that moment, even with his mouth still wrapped around the straw of his soda. "Dude, you just look like you saw the face of God or something," Dean quips, looking curiously at him. He offers Castiel the rest of his nachos because, "You look like you could use them, man."

Castiel takes them with a soft, "Thank you, Dean," which earns him an odd look in return before Dean mentally shrugs and goes back to watching the game.

Castiel watches Dean now instead, and thinks that faith in God is something that he and Gabriel had both lost at one point, after countless millennia spent simply being soldiers who had believed in their Father and His plan. Perhaps Gabriel's faith had chosen to come to St. Sebastian's football program not because it is a religious institution but because it is a team that shows faith in one another in a very human way.

Theirs is not a faith in words, but faith in action. It is gruff and uncouth and ugly at times, but it remains steadfast despite these things, as unshakable as Cameron's gaze is on Darren while the Saints storm into the Romans' endzone one more time.

They are here for one another. There is no other act or speech that is more telling than that one act.

And Castiel realizes that despite everything, despite the lies, the betrayal, the cruel words and the arguments, Dean is here. Dean is still here.

Despite everything that could have torn them apart, Dean sits beside Castiel now— undertakes this mission and the burden of Castiel's war—because he believes that together they can succeed.

There is faith here. When their Father abandoned them, Gabriel found his faith again—and Castiel has found his faith again—amongst the people their Father left behind. In retrospect, perhaps God had left all of his children exactly what they needed to continue on without him.

This humanity is truly God's greatest creation.

Something warm begins to build around Castiel as he thinks that, as he looks at Dean cheering heartily beside him, and in that moment, Castiel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

This time, it is not something he was simply made with, or that he always had. This time, it is not something to chase after and hope for and search every corner of the globe for, hoping that he will be able to look upon it directly and hold it in his hands. It is not something that can be found exactly where you expect it to be.

This time, it is simply a gift, one that comes with the warm presence at his side who is shouting obscenities at a high school football game and getting nacho cheese smeared on the outside of his jeans in the process.

This time, Castiel takes a deep breath and lets faith come right to him.

* * *

Dean sees it out of the corner of his eye right after the third Saints' touchdown; the way Castiel's skin glows bright and white for a moment, the way he grunts and sways in the melee of the home team scoring and nearly falls flat on his face off the end of the bench.

Dean drops his soda and catches his angel while the band strikes up the St. Sebastian fight song, muttering, "Cas?" out loud even as the grace dangling from around his neck recoils like it's been struck by something when they touch. "Cas, what the hell?"

Cas grunts something unintelligible amongst all the noise and Dean shakes him a little, which only makes his head loll onto Dean's shoulder as he blinks blearily. It looks like he's tripping something fierce, cheeks flushed and pupils dilated; Dean can feel the quiet, too-hot puffs of the angel's breath on the side of his neck as he struggles to sit upright on his own power.

Cas eventually puts a hand on Dean's leg and steadies himself, pushes himself back into some semblance of a slouch. "Dean," he rasps, eyes impossibly bright as he stares at the older Winchester with the same sort of wonder he'd had back when they'd first met, when Dean had been trashing every one of his expectations left and right.

Dean's free hand goes up to brush against the vial of grace against his chest. He swallows. "You got it?" he asks, looking around to see if anyone is watching them. They're not, not in the face of the Saints widening the gap and closing out their victory, but part of him feels like he ought to make sure just in case. This feels private somehow; it always does when Cas insists on looking at him like that. "How? Where was it?"

"I remembered," Cas says back, not breaking eye contact. "It has been here all along. Everywhere here."

Dean had not really expected that answer. "What, you suddenly remembered you believe in God and it hit you?" he drawls, fidgeting a little now because Cas's hand is still on his knee.

The corner of Castiel's lip quirks up slightly, like the sarcastic tone Dean is taking with him is somehow warm and endearing. Maybe it is. Who knows with this crazy angel?

"I remembered that I believe in you," Castiel answers without hesitation or preamble. "This is faith that never left me."

Dean balks at that automatically, wants to pull away and sit on the other end of the bench right now because _what__the__hell_. Instead, his hand wraps around the black cord hanging from his neck more tightly as he stares back at the angel. "Uh," he says, inarticulately. "Thanks?"

Castiel, still looking kind of tired from the melding or whatever, doesn't make a move to stop leaning against Dean. "Even without God, even without Heaven, I am not alone," he says mysteriously, and closes his eyes like he's about to take a nap right the fuck now. "That means something."

Dean just stares at the angel some more, while Sam finally pulls himself away from the headmaster's euphoria to stare at his brother and Cas. "Uh… I miss something?" he asks, with a telling look at Dean and the angel pressed very close to his side.

Dean flushes slightly and glares. "Yeah, we got the piece okay. Wipe that stupid look off your face."

Sam blinks, apparently forgetting the tableau angel and brother make for the moment when he hears the news. "What? Really? When? How?"

Dean shrugs helplessly, jostling Cas's head on his shoulder. "I don't know. He just glowed suddenly and bam, he says we got it."

Sam studies the angel for a bit. "Yeah, okay. So…"

Dean nods. "Yeah." He jostles Cas's head on his shoulder a little more. "Dude. No napping at the big game, man."

Castiel's eyes flutter open and he regards Dean with mild irritation. "Very well."

And then Dean blinks again and he's inside the Impala, back where they'd left it in the school parking lot. Cas is in the front seat next to him, still leaning close and looking like he wants nap time and will smite anyone or anything that precludes him from that, while Sam sputters behind them, ostensibly for having been relegated to the backseat. Dean scowls at the bleary-eyed half-archangel currently breathing warm puffs of air against the side of his neck. "Little warning, next time, Cas?"

"I am tired," Castiel responds, like that explains everything. "This shard was quite large."

Dean frowns and wonders how a Cas who has regained his faith somehow seems less obliging than before. "Yeah, okay. I guess it wouldn't have been fun to stick around and see the team suck now that we jacked their grace or whatever," he admits, feeling inexplicably guilty about that as he reaches around Cas and into his pocket for his keys.

"They do not require it," Castiel murmurs, voice slightly muffled by Dean's shirt. "As long as they continue to have the same faith in one another as they do now, they will be victorious. I have faith in this because I have seen their configuration before."

Dean looks down at that moment just as Cas looks up, and for a second the hunter wonders if Cas is trying to tell him something, except all subtle like.

But then Cas yawns, burrows in like Dean is his personal human pillow and closes his eyes, which results in a complete lack of cryptic subtlety.

Dean sighs and heads back in the direction of the hotel while Cas drools into his t-shirt like he owns it.

The grace around his throat buzzes at the proximity and Dean taps it a little while glaring down at the mess of angel snoozing against him. "You and me both," he tells the grace irately, while Sam complains about leaving his favorite pen on the bench just now.

Dean just drives faster.

* * *

Hours later, after the stadium has gone quiet after the joy of another overwhelming St. Sebastian victory, after the lights have been turned off and the parking lot has emptied and the cleaning crew finished picking up the litter, a rustle of paper amongst one of the many trash bags lined along the back of the school catches the night watchman's attention, and muttering to himself about those damned raccoons getting into the concession leftovers, he heads over to investigate before the animals can make a mess that will have the janitorial crew bitching and moaning at him in the morning when they come in for their shifts.

When he gets there he sees no sign of animal life, though one of the black bags of garbage has been thoroughly trashed, fliers and confetti and nacho cheese smeared all over the pavement.

He curses and begins trying to pick some of it up before the wind catches it, and when he does, he hears something a lot like a dog's snuffle to his immediate right; it is followed by a puff of putrid air and a curious grunt.

He turns his head immediately to catch the culprit but comes face to face with a lot of nothing in front of him. Belatedly, he realizes that he has fearfully crushed a half-filled container of nachos in his hand, making his skin slimy with cold, processed cheese. "What the…"

"I'm sorry, but I'm going to need to see that box," a voice tells him cheerfully from out of nowhere, and when he spins around he sees that a short man in a long jacket—a jacket much too heavy to be wearing in this hot weather—is walking down the alley towards him, dapper and English and looking far too clean to be a hobo digging around for a midnight snack.

"Who are you? What do you want?" the night watchman demands, shining his flashlight at the man. "This is private property, sir. You can't be here."

"Oh I'll be out of your hair in just a second, love," the man answers with a wink, and the night watchman shuffles backwards on instinct when he hears that distant, mysterious growling again. "I just want to see the little bit of treasure that Growley there found me." The man stops to crouch and extends a hand towards the watchman's immediate right. "Bring her here, lovely!" the man coaxes in sweet tones, like he's trying to get a dog to come back to him.

Puzzled, the night watchman looks down to where the man is pointing, but as he does, he suddenly finds himself experiencing a sharp, excruciating pain in his right hand, the one currently clutching the half-eaten box of nachos.

When he looks down to find the cause of that pain is the fact that his hand is no longer there; what remains is only a bloody, gushing stump and the tip of a mangled bone.

He starts to scream.

Meanwhile, the strange Englishman in the large coat is patting some invisible creature and singing its praises while holding a human hand wrapped around a crushed box of half-eaten nachos.

The man studies it thoughtfully. "Good boy, Growley," he murmurs, still in cutesy tones, if slightly darker now. "Who's a good boy? You're a good boy! Who wants a treat? You want a treat?"

The last thing the night watchman hears before an invisible weight alights on his chest and rips out his throat is, "Go get your treat!"

The bloody box of nachos is subsequently thrown beside his body in the aftermath.

The strange Englishman and his invisible dog move on.


	10. Chapter 9

**Nine**

Dean is in the hotel room staring at the vial of grace intensely, having taken it off and put it on the table to examine it while Cas has fucked off to God knows where in order to test out the limitations of his powers now that he'd gotten another boost of archangel juice. Sam notes that the grace inside the vial seems to have smoothed out somehow, changing from an amorphous mist that expanded from wall to wall of the glass container and into something that looks a lot more like a shiny marble settled at the bottom of the vial, rolling around kind of pathetically on its own but still pretty to look at when all is said and done. Dean reaches out to tap it every few minutes, like that will change something, and it kind of does, maybe a little, because Sam thinks the grace kind of gives this pathetic attempt to glow a bit brighter whenever Dean touches it. It's kind of like watching a dog die of old age in the movies or something, like it can still hear you call its name but it just doesn't have the energy to get up and come over anymore. The best it can do is maybe perk its ears a little, maybe snuffle mournfully in your direction.

Come to think of it, Dean also kind of looks like one of those kids who knows a favorite pet is dying.

Not that the grace is dying or anything. Sam has already been over this with his brother; the energy doesn't die, it just kind of changes. Maybe it is just in the process of metamorphosing or something, is what he tells Dean, but Dean just looks at him in horror and disgust for even suggesting that kind of thing, because contrary to popular belief, Dean Winchester _has_ read Kafka and he is apparently thinking that nothing good can come of this. Sam bets his brother is worried that the grace will turn into a giant man-eating bug now.

Sam sighs when Dean reaches out again and taps the glass. The grace flares for a moment, before settling back at the bottom. His brother could stand to pick up a newspaper every once in a while and help with the research. It's _his_ angel they're doing it for, after all. Not like the angel cares about _Sam_ or you know, pulling a whole soul out of Hell when he's at it for his second favorite Winchester. "Dean," Sam grits out, when he can't take his brother's sullen silence anymore. "Just leave it. It's fine."

Dean turns his frown on Sam. "Balthazar said I've been taking shitty care of it. And look at it, man. It's kind of like…wilting, or something."

Sam snorts. "Dude, I'm sure if there was a special way to take care of angel grace, Cas would have said something by now."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Cas gives fuck all about his old grace now that he's getting a shiny new one," his brother drawls, and sounds as wildly indignant about that as he does whenever people ask what an LP or a cassette tape is. Don't even get Sam started on how Dean reacts to the iPod or the iPad or the iPhone. He calls them all the iDouches and won't touch the things, but doesn't complain when Sam gets all the research done on them without either of them having to crack a book or spend a day in a musty public library spending a small fortune on Xerox printouts.

Sam looks away from the CNN page he is currently trolling on his iPad. "Okay, well, maybe grace is like a plant or something," he offers, trying to be helpful in the hopes that his helpfulness will get Dean to return the favor, perhaps in the realm of research, more likely in the realm of going out to get food so that he'll stop distracting Sam with his morose moping around. "Maybe the container just needs more sunlight or something. You keep it tucked under your shirt all the time. It could be that it's not getting its D vitamins."

Dean seems to consider this, then cautiously nudges the vial across the table a little more, into a patch of sunlight leaking through the cheap motel blinds. He silently observes.

"Nothing's happening," he observes out loud, two minutes later.

"It's not going to change in such a short amount of time, Dean. Maybe it needs a few minutes to, you know, gather strength or something." In Sam's head, he imagines it slowly photosynthesizing the sunlight and then blooming open again, starting to back into that formless swirl of mist that looks so much like its very own Milky Way.

"Dude, it's _grace_," Dean answers, like that should mean something synonymous with _absorbs __sunlight __instantly __like __Superman_ or something. He taps the glass again.

"Okay, well maybe I wasn't right about the sunlight," Sam amends, graciously. Not like Dean was throwing out any ideas of his own or anything.

"You hear that?" Dean asks the grace, grinning. "Sammy was wrong about something. You're my only witness."

Sam is about to answer with a resounding _screw__ you, __Dean_, except that before he can, the grace kind of uncoils itself at the sound of Dean's voice addressing it, and gives a weak attempt to rise up that is much better than all the attempts it had made before.

Dean stares. "Hey, did you see that?"

"Yeah," Sam answers, because he _did_.

Dean's brow furrows. "So…it did need sunlight?"

"I think it was reacting to you talking to it," Sam corrects. "Maybe? Try again."

Dean gives him this look like he's crazy or stupid or both, but after Sam nods encouragingly at him, turns back to the grace and clears his throat. "Uh, so, how's it going?" he asks.

The grace pulses again, and more tendrils float out from the tight ball it had curled itself up in, returning to a fair facsimile of the form it had been in when they'd gotten it at the beginning of this whole mess, if slightly smaller, slightly less bright. It swirls a little in the container, a mini galaxy of pure creation.

A crooked smile graces Dean's face at the sight of that. "Will you look at that?" he murmurs, and scoops the grace up the table to hold in front of his face. "So you just like the sound of my voice, huh?"

The grace pulses once in what can only be the affirmative, light silver-white and content. Sam supposes that's the answer to that.

"So it is like a plant," Sam muses out loud, which earns him another weird look from Dean. Sam sighs, and gestures vaguely with his hand. "I read an article once about how talking to your plants and playing them music helps nurture them or something," he admits.

Dean snorts. "Wow, thanks for that, Martha," he drawls, before turning back to the grace and using the exact advice he'd _just_ made fun of Sam for giving him. "All right then, mini-Cas," he tells the grace fondly, "let's go play you some music."

Mini-Cas seems to like that idea, and starts to swirl a little more in its tube.

"Classical music!" Sam feels the need to shout after his brother, before turning back to the computer.

"Of course I'm playing mini-Cas classic stuff," Dean snorts, like that isn't even an option, and Sam has a feeling that his definition of classical music and Dean's are about as different as their definition of what an okay physical boundary to have with an angel of the Lord is.

Sam sighs. At least the grace had looked happy about it, or whatever.

* * *

Dean spends the next hour rocking out with mini-Cas and Kansas in the Impala while chattering randomly to the grace about how Sam's definition of classical is limited, how great the Impala's interior is, and that amazing piece of peach cobbler he'd had for lunch yesterday afternoon that Sam hadn't appreciated and Cas hadn't bothered trying because apparently his need for food is now about on par with Sam's need for sex, which is to say, a sad and pointless number.

The grace seems to perk up considerably from its earlier droopy state under these ministrations, and Dean, feeling something inexplicably hopeful rise along his chest at the sight of it, determinedly talks on and on and on to it, until it's expanded to fill about half the vial again.

He would have gone for more, but that's the exact moment Cas appears in the car next to him, holding a candy bar in one hand and munching on it.

Dean startles a little at the sight of him, and then frowns when he sees the chocolate in the angel's hand. "Dude, you said you didn't need to eat at lunch," he says, all accusatory as he hastily drapes mini-Cas back around his neck and tucks the vial into his shirt.

Castiel just eyes him calmly. "I expended more energy than I had intended to testing the limits of my reach," he explains, like that makes any sense at all. "Also, I find I like this Skor."

"You'll break your teeth on that stuff," Dean answers automatically, before turning down the radio a little. He thinks he can almost feel mini-Cas coil away from the angel on reflex; maybe it's the whole _archangel__ grace, __beware_ thing, or maybe it's something else, but Dean kind of feels the same thing about it. "How're you feeling?" he asks Cas after a beat in which the only sounds in the cab of the car are the murmuring of the radio and Cas crunching on his English toffee.

"Substantial," the angel answers, like that means something. "Vast."

"Those aren't feelings," Dean points out, reasonably, though for some reason his jaw feels a little tight as he says it.

Castiel sort of just tilts his head at Dean and takes another bite of his candy bar.

Dean sighs and mutters, "Forget it," before turning off the radio and heading inside. "Let's go see what the nerd patrol has dug up."

A fluttering of wings tells Dean that Cas is way ahead of him.

* * *

"Animal heroism," Sam declares a little while later, after the pizza's been ordered and they're waiting for the delivery guy to get there with their dinner.

Dean blinks. "Animal heroism?"

Sam hands the iDouchepad over and points to an article he has on the screen. Dean juggles it a little and frowns as he scrolls around with the dreaded touchpad.

An article about a town with a series of magnificent pet heroes glares back up at him, complete with pictures of said happy animals and their doting owners. "Uh," Dean manages after a moment, and just looks kind of hopelessly at his brother.

Sam sighs. "Dean, this dog ran into a burning house and dragged his unconscious owner out. A cat attacked a burglar holding her owner at gunpoint and was shot and killed in the process. A police dog took a bullet for the cop he works with."

Dean shrugs. "Yeah but they're always talking about shit like this on those Animal Planet specials, aren't they?"

Sam gives him a look like he's grown a second head. Dean scowls. "I watched a lot of random cable those first few months at Lisa's, okay?" he snaps back defensively, which just makes Sam put his hands up in surrender (without even trying to hide his smirk, by the way).

"Right. Well, that stuff _does_ happen normally but what about this?" He taps his douche pad a few more times until the screen stops on the image of a middle-aged woman surrounded by dogs of all shapes and sizes.

Dean wishes Sam would get to the point. "Get to the point, Sam," he says, out loud.

Sam gives him this long suffering look of _why__ isn__'__t __my__ brother__ smart_. "This woman had fifteen dogs in her house. All rescues she was keeping because no one else would take them in. Apparently she tripped and hit her head on the edge of her tub and died."

That's sad and kind of horrible but Dean is pretty sure it isn't up their particular alley of horrible. "Uh…kay."

Sam continues to give useless backstory because he likes context or whatever. "She lived and worked basically all alone, so no one found her body for three weeks, after the neighbors started complaining about the mail and the newspapers piling up. And when they did find her? She was perfectly intact, despite the fact that all fifteen of her animals had been trapped inside with her and basically starving to death. The dogs _walked__ around__ her __body_ to drink out of the toilet, but none of them tried to eat her."

Dean's nose wrinkles, because that must have been super gross for the dogs. "And…"

"Dean," Sam presses, when Dean obviously doesn't get it, "None of those dogs tried to eat the body. Even though they were starving to death. That doesn't strike you as abnormal?"

"Like I said," Dean persists, "It could happen. Man's best friend, right?"

"Yeah, maybe if it's _one_ dog, Dean," Sam points out, completely rational. "But what are the odds of all _fifteen_ animals coming to a consensus on something like that?"

Dean isn't anywhere near as nerdy as Sam, but odds are something he does know how to calculate by way of necessity in terms of hustling, and okay, maybe his brainy little brother has a point there. "Yeah, fine," Dean admits, glancing away from the photo of the starved, sad-eyed animals. "So what do you think we're looking at here, exactly?"

"Devotion," Sam declares, at the exact same time Cas does. "It makes sense," Sam continues, while Cas turns back to observing the _Dr.__ Sexy __MD_ marathon on cable with a look of complete concentration. "And! And, the first recorded case of something like this happening was two days after Gabriel died."

"It is worth checking out," Cas says, pausing from his perusal of the TV. Then he pauses and declares, "I do not think Dr. Sexy's boots are properly sanitized for a hospital setting."

"The _boots_ are what make him Dr. Sexy," Dean insists.

Castiel's answer is to declare that the Winchesters are not allowed to stay in any hospitals that are unsanitary. Also, "If I were Dr. Sexy, I would not wear boots."

Dean isn't sure why that last part irritates him so damn much, but when he talks about it with mini-Cas later that night, he takes some comfort in the fact that Cas's grace doesn't seem to like it either, which just proves that mini-Cas has great taste.

Sam catches Dean whispering to mini-Cas about these things in the bathroom like a total creep and gives him a look that clearly says he thinks his brother is insane.

The fact that Dean is starting to feel a warm sense of contentment whenever he talks to mini-Cas about things might mean that his brother is not entirely wrong.

* * *

They find themselves in a small town Iowa some time later, right in the midst of what looks like a freaking pet parade or festival of something; there are dogs in little sweaters being toured around and adored, cats on leashes (what the fuck?) and parrots being hand-fed and cooed at like favorite children. At the local park, a pretty young veterinarian lectures to a group of gathered children about proper pet care, there's stalls selling puppy-shaped cakes, pies, and cookies (again, what the fuck?) and Dean is pretty sure there is a woman sitting on a lawn chair in a grocery parking lot teaching other women how to make arts and crafts with _cat __hair_.

The town mayor is in attendance and very obliging to their questions as she holds a yappy, bony, ugly Chihuahua thing in her arms, and lights up with small town pride when Sam, Dean, and Cas show up within the county lines wearing their favorite guise of tourists just road tripping around America to consummate their love of small town values and blah, blah, blah.

Dean completes the illusion by buying a personal-sized puppy apple pie and munching on it as they stroll through the streets of the friendly little burb; he does have to admit that the size and shape make the pie pretty effing convenient to eat on the move. Even if it is molded to look like a freaking French poodle, which is not cool at all. The least they could do is make pitbull shaped pie or something.

Meanwhile, Mayor Shelby prattles on happily about how her yappy, bony, ugly Chihuahua thing is always super excited to see new faces in town, and introduces them to Dr. Yuan, the pretty young veterinarian giving lectures on responsible pet ownership in the park all day. "For youth awareness," Mayor Shelby points out, while Dean wipes pie crumbs off his hand and shakes the good Doctor's hand. "Dr. Yuan is a very big part of our town's extraordinary record with animals," the mayor adds, with a not-so-secretive wink at Sam.

"Uh, wow. That's great," Sam manages, while Dr. Yuan blushes a little.

"She's giving me more credit than I deserve," the vet assures them. "I just moved here a couple of years ago hoping to start up my own practice. I guess I lucked out by picking the one town in the entire country completely devoted to their animals."

"Was it always like this, then?" Dean asks, while Cas has a staring contest with a wily looking grey parrot sitting on one of the vet tech's shoulders.

"Oh, no, not exactly," Dr. Yuan admits. "I mean, everyone took good care of their animals of course, but it wasn't like…well, like this," she pauses to gesture to the surrounding festivities like the visual does more for what she means than anything she could possibly say. "It actually wasn't until a little over two years ago, when Dodger—he was one of my first patients after moving here—saved his owner Bill from a house fire. Bill had an alcohol problem at the time and had accidentally fallen asleep with a lit cigarette on the couch after a bender. The whole house was up by the time he woke up, and Dodger basically had him half-dragged out the door at that point."

"That's amazing," Sam says, all earnest sincerity. Cas continues to have his stare-off with the parrot, which prompts Dean to nudge him and give him a significant look, which the angel only returns with a confused furrowing of his brow. Dean decides to ignore him.

"So ever since Dodger, the town's been animal crazy, huh?" he asks, and flashes an appreciative grin at the vet. "Sounds like a nice place to settle down, then."

She laughs a little—no one is immune to the Winchester charm—and shakes her head. "Well, they didn't go gaga for the idea right away exactly, but after Dodger saved his life, Bill took it as a personal mission to stop drinking and start rescuing strays and educating people about pet ownership. The two of us kind of teamed up, and when more and more amazing animal stories started popping up all over town, I guess people kind of took it as a sign."

"I'd like to meet this Dodger," Sam says. "He sounds like a real special dog."

Dr. Yuan nods. "He was. But I'm afraid Dodger had to be put down after the horrible burns he suffered dragging Bill from the fire. There's a memorial for him in the cemetery that Bill set up if you want to take a look at it, though. I swear every time I go past it I feel like it's watching over us, encouraging all the other animals to be as extraordinary as he was."

Mayor Shelby pipes up then, still holding her ugly bony Chihuahua thing as she wipes at her eyes, clearly touched. "And they have been! Their devotion to us made us realize that maybe we should try to do the same for them and for each other. It's selfish to just keep taking and taking and taking from someone who loves us and not try to give anything back to them, isn't it?" she asks the dog in her arms, which just yips and wags its tail a little bit. "Hence, our weekly pet fair!"

Dean almost balks at the thought of this ridiculousness being a _weekly_ event, but before he can he catches Cas's eye, which looks vaguely thoughtful as he soaks in the mayor's words. He finally tears himself away from his new parrot buddy. "I think it is very nice that you wish to acknowledge these animals' devotion to you in such a way," he says with solemn sincerity. They are the first words he's uttered since they parked the Impala back in the grocery lot, next to the cat-hair knitting club.

Dr. Yuan chuckles. "Well, given my track record with them, I'd be a monster not to," she admits.

"Track record?" Sam asks, all polite curiousness, and for a brief moment, something apprehensive flashes in Dr. Yuan's eyes, like she's getting a bad taste in her mouth about something and doesn't want to dwell on it.

"It was… it was a long time ago," she hedges, breaking eye contact to glance down at the ground to her left. She hugs herself a little too, and Dean has interviewed enough witnesses and loved ones over the years to know exactly when someone is going to a place that isn't their happy one.

Sam manages to look appropriately sympathetic without losing that wide-eyed, curiosity that makes him completely harmless looking despite his massive size. "Dr. Yuan, did you have an experience kind of like Bill did?" he deduces like a fucking pro without spooking the vet too bad. Dean's brother is like the Oprah of Hunters or something.

"I had an abusive boyfriend my freshman year in college and my first dog, Pepper, fought him off when he got drunk one night and attacked me with a knife." She wraps her arms around herself a little tighter and her voice goes a little softer. "Pepper's ashes are in a jar in my office, and every time I look at them, I think about how I might not be here doing _anything_ if it hadn't been for her. She's the reason I decided to become a veterinarian."

"Wow," is all Dean can say, mostly because Mayor Shelby is getting even more choked up now, and Dr. Yuan seems right on her heels. Sam has the sad puppy face of his on that means he genuinely sympathizes and everyone can tell him all their secrets because he's their new best friend forever.

Dean kind of wants to sidestep them all and go get another poodle pie.

Luckily a vet tech scrambles over before things can get awkward, informing Dr. Yuan that the kids are settling down for their pet grooming lecture now and that she should probably go get ready for that.

"Right. Of course," she says, then turns to the Winchesters and Cas. "You're welcome to stay and watch if you'd like. Also, Mrs. Marner will probably be showing up soon with the puppies she's been fostering this last month, if any of you are looking to adopt."

"Uh, maybe?" Sam responds, which earns a small smile from the vet before she composes herself again and heads back up to her little makeshift demonstration stage.

"I do not think it would be wise to take a puppy with us on the road," Castiel puts out there, with a frown at Sam. He is apparently the poster boy for responsible pet ownership.

Sam sighs while Mayor Shelby twitters and excuses herself to take a seat for the demonstration, though not before encouraging them all to at least stay and play with the puppies for a little while, on account of it being "good for the soul" or something.

She leaves the three of them standing alongside the path in the park looking thoughtful.

"So?" Sam asks. "Anything?"

Dean fingers the cord with Cas's grace on it and shrugs. "No reaction from mini-Cas," he reports.

Castiel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. After a minute, he opens his eyes again. "It is here somewhere. It is not making its exact location known to me at this moment."

"Gotta show it some devotion before it'll drop its pants," Dean reminds him. Cas looks at him like he has no idea what that means, but that he also doesn't care enough to ask.

"Well," Sam offers in the meantime, sounding pensive, "from the sounds of things, it looks like there are two places it can be. One, in Dodger's memorial at the pet cemetery or two, in that urn in Dr. Yuan's office."

"Two places that we _know__ of,__"_ Dean reminds him. "We are living in the land of the super pets or something. I mean, what about that burglar attacking cat? Or the starving dog house?"

"Symptoms," Castiel buts in. "The timing of Gabriel's grace being released coincides with the two incidents Sam mentioned. Dr. Yuan indicated that she arrived here at close to the same time that Dodger saved his owner's life. It must be one of those two incidents that drew the grace here. The other is a result, not the cause."

"Nerds," Dean mutters, when Sam just looks on in agreement with Cas, like that's what he'd been thinking all along. "Okay, fine. My money's on the grave."

"I disagree," Castiel tells him. "I believe Dr. Yuan's arrival with Pepper's ashes might have been the cause. Dodger is more likely to have been an effect brought on by her presence here. If this is an archangel's devotion, then it signifies an attachment to something or someone comparable to an angel's devotion to our Father. I believe that Dr. Yuan's devotion to her dog, the fact that she has continued to live her life in accordance with honoring the memory of that animal is more significant than the other case."

Dean frowns. "Hey, we don't know the whole Dodger story yet either. Poor guy lived with the town drunk, right? Still gave up his life to save him no matter how shitty it might have gotten like that."

Castiel considers this. "I suppose this is also a possibility," he concedes.

Dean eyes Sam. "All right, tie breaker?"

Sam shrugs. "I think it could go either way, really."

Dean sighs. "Useless, man. What am I paying you for?"

Sam flips him off. "Obviously we have to investigate both either way, right?"

"Yeah, yeah." Dean goes to buy another one of those poodle-shaped pies first, though.

* * *

It is while Dean is munching on his third dog-shaped apple pie that a general cry of distress disturbs the peaceful weekend atmosphere; Sam and Dean's heads instantly snap up at the sound while Castiel tenses beside Dean and steps just a little bit in front of them both. Which looks kind of ridiculous because Cas is the smallest one of all of them. But the gesture is, Sam supposes, appreciated in terms of sentiment.

A general commotion erupts after that first scream, as a rather plump woman in a floral-patterned mumu comes thundering into the park with a box in her hands and tears in her eyes. "Dr. Yuan!" she sobs, and is moving at a pretty impressive clip for a woman her size, "Please help Fancy!"

Dr. Yuan frowns and steps off the stage, leaving a confused puppy in a sudsy bath of water and flea shampoo, pulling off her latex gloves and instantly accepting the box. When she looks into it and sees what she sees, she turns positively green around the gills for a moment, before taking a deep breath and tucking the box under her arm. The vet tech at her side actually turns his head to the left and vomits on the grass.

Dr. Yuan ignores him. "We need to get to my office," she tells the woman in the mumu in the kind of calm tone you have to force in order to keep yourself from breaking out into hysterics yourself. "I'll see what I can do for Fancy there."

The sobbing woman nods, and before a crowd can gather, the vet is off, striding determinedly across the park towards Main Street.

Sam goes up to the retching vet tech with a cup of water before anyone else can ask him what's going on. The poor young man takes it with a nod of thanks and rinses his mouth out, before wiping his mouth with the back of a shaky hand.

"That bad, huh?" Sam asks after a moment, careful to keep his tone deeply sympathetic but not too grim.

"God, that poor cat was half eaten," the tech murmurs wretchedly. "Must have been a wild animal attack."

"Those happen a lot here?" Sam asks, looking back over his shoulder at Dean, who is _still_ eating his pie while the rest of the townsfolk murmur in worry around them.

"No, not really," the tech answers. "I mean, the worst I've seen since I started working here was a couple of porcupine quills in a puppy's nose. That… there's no way Fancy is going to make it. Poor Miss Carter, she really loves that cat."

"You okay?" Sam asks next, because the guy looks like he might start retching all over again just thinking about what he'd seen.

"Yeah. Uh… I better uh, I better finish the presentation," he manages, and climbs back to his feet. He heads for the stage again, where the puppy in the bath water has started to try and climb out. Sam pads back over to Dean.

"Something the matter?" Dean asks him, around a mouthful of apples and crust.

"Animal attack," Sam answers, though part of him thinks that coincidences don't exist in Winchester land, and that their arrival here being timed with the vicious mauling of an innocent cat might be some sort of cosmic sign (of demons) or something.

"Sam?" Dean asks, and is probably thinking the same thing Sam is.

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "I think we might have company."

Their suspicions are only confirmed fifteen minutes later, when a distraught Mrs. Marner arrives to the festivities with only _one_ puppy and a horrible story about how she'd found the remains of the other six scattered across her backyard earlier this morning. The weird part is, Mrs. Marner informs them in between sobs, is that she's _certain_ all the puppies had been sleeping peacefully _inside_ last night, in their pen where she always leaves them.

Dean stops eating his poodle pie.

* * *

"You think something is maybe following us?" Sam asks Dean a little while later, after they've checked in to a little bed and breakfast in the edge of town that seems to smell perpetually of fresh baked goods and laundry detergent.

Dean shrugs, because things have followed them their whole lives. That doesn't mean they shouldn't stop for a little bit and appreciate the fact that they are renting a room that actually has clean sheets and a small basket of homemade cookies in the corner, wrapped in cheerful colored cellophane with a little card that's got paw print trim around the edges. It even reads "Welcome!" on it in curvy, elegant print. Dean grabs a cookie and unwraps it, jamming a third of it into his mouth and thoroughly delighting in the fact that these were clearly made—at the latest—this morning. "Maybe," he answers his brother after a beat, around a mouthful of awesome, "I don't know. It's not the shard doing anything weird is it?" he asks, turning to Cas just to make sure. He finishes off his cookie in the meantime.

Cas seems kind of affronted by the notion that it could be. "There is no part of an angel that seeks to harm pointlessly," Castiel tells him, flatly. "It is far more likely that we are being followed." He frowns. "This is a great inconvenience, as we have not found the shard of devotion yet."

Dean shrugs. "Fine, whatever. We can multitask, we've done it before. To tell you the truth, this is exactly what we need."

Sam gives him this incredulous look.

Dean shrugs. "What? I'm kind of in the mood to kill something. Feels like these past few weeks have been a little too much uh… other stuff and not enough hunting," he says, using _other__ stuff_ in lieu of _hugs__ and __feelings_, mostly because he never wants to say hugs and feelings out loud together in a sentence where there are people—namely Sam—within earshot. He claps his hands together in a vaguely anticipatory manner. "All right. I'll swing around to the outskirts of town, maybe pay Dodger's grave a visit, and see if I can't find any evidence to tell us what's out there killing puppies while I'm at it. Sam can hit the books. Cas, you swing by the vet's after hours, and check if your grace bit isn't in there. We'll be able handle this all in one night, if we do it right."

Sam and Cas share a skeptical look at that, which makes Dean think that must mean Sam's forgiven Cas for the whole _whoops, __forgot__ your__ soul_ thing now, because they only ever do that when they're in agreement on something on a molecular level. And right now, they are clearly in perfect nerd boy harmony.

"If it is not just a coincidental hunt—which is unlikely— and we are in fact being followed—which is far more likely—I believe it would be unwise to split up."

"Yeah, well if we are being followed it's either by Crowley and his goons or Raphael and his goons or _both_, and if either of those douches gets hold of the grace piece before we do _the__ world _is screwed, so obviously my plan is the superior one here."

"No one else offered a plan for yours to be superior to," Sam reminds him, like a _dick_. "Cas was just explaining how yours was weak."

Dean crosses his arms. "Look, the faster we do this the better, right? So let's handle it and get the hell out of Dodge."

"And if demons capture you?" Castiel asks.

Dean shrugs. "I'll pray." Pause. Frown. "You can hear me still, right?" he asks, suddenly realizing that maybe half a grace _can__'__t_ hear prayers. Or maybe grace that isn't _Cas__'__s_ can't hear him, or something. His hand goes up around the vial hanging from his neck again and what he gets is a reassuring pulse against his skin there. On the other hand, Castiel himself stares at Dean for a while. Eventually the angel nods, almost imperceptibly. "I will hear you, Dean," he says.

Dean drops his hand in relief. "Well, all right then. This plan is officially on," he declares, standing up straight again and heading out the door. "But first, food."

"Dude, "Sam complains at his back, "you just had three pieces of pie and a cookie!"

"Pregaming, Sammy! It's called priming the pump," Dean calls over his shoulder with a wave. "It's good for the system."

Under the cotton of his t-shirt, Dean thinks mini-Cas feels like he's laughing.

* * *

When the Impala rolls back through the town's main thoroughfare a few minutes later, Dean can't help but rubberneck a little as they pass the veterinary office on Central Avenue; it's so crowded that there's been spill out from the small waiting room onto the sidewalk outside the doors. Kids are crying, people are generally looking haggard and distressed, and one woman has her knees up against her chest and is _actually_rocking to herself like a crazy person. Dean shares a look with Sam as he parks the car on a side street and the three of them get out, the goal of the lone restaurant down the street momentarily forgotten.

"What's going on?" Sam manages to ask when an exhausted looking vet tech pokes his head outside to call on a family waiting for news about their pet rabbits.

"Wolves, maybe," the tech mutters, waving the family in ahead of him. "Or coyotes? I don't know, man. Usually if it's wild animals they'll drag the bodies away, eat most of it, you know? Sometimes all of it. This just looks like…maiming."

"Seem weird to you?" Dean asks, without preamble. The tech looks surprised at the question, but after a moment lowers his voice.

"Yeah, man. I mean, how would a coyote get into someone's house? Or into cages? They can't walk through doors."

"Yeah, weird," Dean echoes. "You sure it's animals? Maybe someone in town isn't as happy about the animal craze as the rest of you guys."

"Has to be," the tech tells him. "There are claw marks and bite marks people just can't make on their own. Though…"

"Though?"

He shakes his head. "Smells a little bit like rotten eggs. No animals I know of smell like that less they live near a hot spring or something. And the closest one I know of is two states over."

Dean feels his jaw go tight at the news. _Shit_.

Sam jumps in. "Maybe it's uh, habitat destruction," he reassures the tech. "Loss of food sources will make wolves travel further than they usually do to find food, right?"

The tech nods. "Yeah man, you're probably right. Look, I better go…"

"Don't let us keep you," Sam says obligingly, and the tech disappears back into the office without another word.

"Demons," he sighs. "Great."

"Not just demons," Dean growls, feeling a sudden and resounding loss in appetite. "Hell hounds."

Sam nods in perfect understanding. "Crowley?"

"Probably," Dean grunts, through gritted teeth.

That decided, they walk right past the restaurant and back to the car again.

* * *

Some hours after sunset Dean finds himself at the local pet cemetery, looking from headstone to headstone for Dodger's memorial while keeping an eye out for any (admittedly) invisible Hell hounds. Sam is with Cas because Dean knows Sam is safer with Cas, and because Dean had basically thrown a fit until his brother had agreed to accompany the angel. "You know, in case he is right about the ashes," Dean had said, in his most convincing tones, "he'll be all woozy after he gets the grace piece and someone will have to be there to make sure Crowley or Raphael isn't planning to jump him while he's recoiling, man. I'm counting on you, Sam."

Sam had looked at him like he'd known Dean was full of shit, but had conceded eventually, and so Dean is here, walking the cemetery alone despite the fact that Hell hounds are on the loose and probably want to eat his face again.

Well, not alone, alone, he supposes. He holds min-Cas up kind of like a maglite. "Got anything for me, man?" he asks it, and it glows a little brighter. "You're the dowsing rod or whatever, right?"

Another flash at the words, and when Dean turns right, the glow gets more intense. He turns left again, and it fades. "Huh, useful," he informs the grace, and feels a thrilled hum against his palm when he says so.

Clearly he is now kicking ass at this whole _nurturing_ thing. Or something.

Dodger's memorial turns out to be a ten foot monstrosity sticking up over the general airspace of the cemetery; a life-sized statue of a handsome looking German Sheperd surrounded by stone-carvings of flame with a burning house in the backdrop. He's pretty sure the monument has its own light source on top of that too.

Whistling to himself, Dean comes to a stop at the base of the statue and looks it up and down speculatively. Mini-Cas kind of gives a vague flutter when they stop moving, prompting Dean to eye it again. "So is that a sign that I'm on the right track, or are you just in love with the sound of my voice?"

The grace gives another warm pulse that doesn't help Dean out either way, and with a sigh, he pulls out his phone to call Sam in the hopes of finding out if they've got anything on their end yet and whether or not he should deface this town memorial in search of buried grace. Part of him hopes Cas ended up being right and it's embedded in a bunch of dead dog ashes, because this thing is way too big to take down without drawing a ton of attention to himself.

The phone manages to ring once before Dean gets jumped.

* * *

Castiel feels a small thrill of triumph as he and Sam appear in the dark of Dr. Yuan's office and he feels his grace react immediately to the proximity of the shard. Of course devotion should be here, in a place where one creature's sacrifice for the sake of her human's had been enough to warrant a lifetime of gratitude, a lifetime of devoting one's purpose toward the sake of that which had saved her.

"Cas?" Sam whispers, when he sees the look on the angel's face, and Castiel simply nods once, before he is crossing towards the office's small fireplace and the mantle on which the ashes of Dr. Yuan's dog sits.

"How do we uh, how do we devote it into coming out?" Sam asks after a beat.

"It should not be a problem," Castiel answers him as he runs his hand over the sides of the urn, contemplating. Surely his devotion is unquestionable. If Pepper died once for Dr. Yuan, then Castiel has died twice for humanity, for his Father's favored children, for _Dean_. He will probably die again for all those things as well, because there is no other point in such an eternal creature disappearing from the fabric of the universe unless it is for those things.

He can feel the pulse of the shard under his palm after a moment, as if it is intrigued by the picture of devotion he presents, though not yet convinced. He closes his eyes and opens himself to its radiance. Mostly, he thinks of Dean.

And that is when chaos erupts in the office.

A throb of warning, tinny and weak to even his ears twinges at the back of his mind and suddenly his eyes fly open, just in time to see Dean appear from nowhere on the other side of the room, looking disoriented and bleeding from the temple.

He is surrounded by Hell hounds.

"Hello, Castiel," a familiar voice breathes from beside him, and the angel spins in time to see Crowley plop down into Dr. Yuan's chair, fingers steepled and grin infuriatingly superior as his eyes rake over the angel's body in a more than suggestive manner. "How are those archangel steroids working out for you? You look bigger. Stronger. Can't say I recognize you exactly, but that's just what happens when you upgrade, I suppose." Crowley tilts his head slightly, to examine Castiel's backside then, just because.

"Crowley," Castiel bites out, while Sam shouts "Dean!" and makes a move towards his brother on instinct. Castiel's hand shoots out and he pulls the younger Winchester back automatically, keeping him from tromping right into the circle of Hell hounds currently imprisoning his brother.

"Tough lot to find when you don't exactly know what you're looking for, but we tracked you down eventually. Humans have such a…unique scent," the demon declares from the chair, picking up random animal-themed knickknacks from the desk and shaking them absently. "Ones that've been to the pit especially."

"What do you want?" Castiel asks, though the question is needless. He most likely wants Castiel dead. Dean and Sam as well.

Crowley just leers at the angel before picking at the undersides of his nails with Dr. Yuan's letter opener. "Nothing about what I want has changed, Castiel," he says pleasantly. "Only the conditions under which I get it. You see, your big brother and I have a deal on the table right now. He gets the remaining shards of old Gabriel's grace, powers up, and uses it to squash you and your little rebel forces up in the clouds. I help him with that, with you in particular, and he helps me open the door to purgatory. We split the winnings 40-60. Not exactly the percentage I was looking for when I went to him, but after my last buyer bailed on me like he did, I had to take what I could get."

Castiel eyes him suspiciously. He has worked with the demon for long enough now to know that there is a secondary agenda in the works at the moment, and that is the only reason why Dean is currently still alive. "You are unhappy with your current arrangement," the angel states plainly, even as he feels his sword slipping down from his sleeve, into the palm of his hand.

Crowley smiles. "Ah see, that's the kind of repertoire you develop with a person when you've worked together for as long as you and I have, Castiel. You're exactly right. I would like to make a deal. Insurance, mostly, because to be perfectly honest, I can't trust that old Raph will go through with his end of the bargain once all the pieces are in play. I'm beginning to learn that angels aren't at all trustworthy like that." He pauses to sigh. "My fault really. Too many bloody movies where you lot are the good guys, I suppose."

Castiel's eyes flicker towards Dean, who is glaring at the invisible Hell hounds at his feet for all he's worth. Castiel knows that he could attempt to rescue Dean, but the likelihood of his being able to keep all of the hounds at bay long enough to get Dean to safety is unlikely. He is not yet at full power and as such, not in possession of all his abilities yet. He will not gamble with Dean's life in that. "What are your terms?" he asks the demon, after a beat.

Crowley looks downright cheerful. "The deal is this. You give me your old grace. Which honestly, isn't such a big deal, considering that you won't need it after you reformat the whole drive to install the latest OS. In exchange, I let you take on the shard you've found _and_ I don't let Growley and the boys rip Dean apart limb from limb."

"Don't do it, Cas," Dean protests from the corner, fear evident in his voice but sheer stubbornness forcing him to make these demands on Castiel even as he stands in no position to. "He kills me, you just bring me back again, okay?"

Crowley looks at Dean like he is a dear but mentally deficient pet. "He could do that, I suppose. But I have since remodeled Hell. Complete makeover, with little personal accents. It's not the same as he remembers, you see, Dean. And if I throw you into the pit, I will put you in the deepest, darkest corner of it, and it might take another forty years for Castiel to find you again. Maybe longer. And in all that time I have with you, I will break out the vintage torture again, just in honor of your big return. How many years do you think it will take to break you this time, I wonder? And when he does find you, how much of a demon will you have already become?"

Dean squares his jaw and ignores Crowley, turning stern eyes on Castiel. "You will _not_ deal with him again, Cas!" he says, without any consideration as to how outlandish his stipulations are.

Castiel feels his eyes narrow. "Dean," he says, "We will give him my grace. It is obsolete and of no use to us at this point in time."

"No!" Dean persists, and clutches at the vial in his hands with stubborn resolution. "Fuck that."

Castiel glares. "I no longer need it."

Dean's eyes flare, bright and angry. "Well I'm saying maybe you do!"

"Oh isn't this precious?" Crowley murmurs as he watches, hand on his face. "Clock's ticking boys. I call Raphael down in thirty seconds unless we have an agreement."

"What do you want with grace anyway?" Sam demands.

Crowley eyes him. "Given that Dean is obviously the pretty one, I thought you were supposed to be the smart one. My image of you is ruined, Sam." He tsks sadly.

"Energy," Castiel bites out in response to Sam's question. "It's as you said, Sam. Grace and souls are all energy. An angel's grace at his disposal will give him considerable—if temporary— power."

"Then why didn't he just take it when he had Dean?" Sam asks next. It is a valid question.

"I am still alive," Castiel answers. "My grace is tied to this existence, and as such, I am its master unless I renounce it completely. It is the opposite of Gabriel's grace. Because Gabriel is dead, the ties binding his grace to him have been severed and as such, it is free flowing energy that can be used by anyone who has the knowledge to harness it. Crowley cannot use my grace as long as I am alive and it still belongs to me. However, if I willingly relinquish ownership of it, those ties binding it to me will be severed as if I am dead. He may use it then."

Sam, curious as ever, or perhaps just stalling Crowley long enough in the hopes of coming up with a plan to save his brother, pushes on. "Use it for what? If he gets the purgatory souls, why will one angel's grace matter after all that?"

Castiel keeps a careful eye on the circling Hell hounds as he answers, mostly in the hopes that one of them will slip, will move too close to one of the others or look away for a moment. They do not. "If Raphael succeeds in opening the door to purgatory it is unlikely he will allow Crowley to live, let alone share the spoils with him. Crowley plans to use my grace as either a means to battle him or to stun him long enough to escape from him."

"Now _there_ is the smart one I've been looking for," Crowley declares, smiling admiringly at the angel. "Anyone ever tell you how sexy that is, Cas?" He looks at his watch again. "Ten seconds, by the way… nine…"

Castiel turns back to the demon. "The deal is already done," he says, ignoring Dean's obstinate look of betrayal from the corner of his eyes. "The grace is yours."

Crowley beams. "Wonderful," he says, and from one breath to the next, is on the other side of the room, reaching out to pluck the grace from Dean's hands.

Infuriatingly, Dean slaps the demon's hands away. "Fuck that," he bites out, and clutches the vial tightly against his chest. "You aren't taking it."

Within the vial, Castiel can see his grace flare with joy even as he feels his own irritation at Dean's liberties threaten to overtake him.

"Dean," Castiel grits out. "It is imprudent to fight so determinedly for a piece of energy that is no longer of use to any of us."

"And besides," Crowley adds, reaching out to backhand Dean viciously across the face. "A deal's a deal."

Dean recoils, stumbling into a wall, and Castiel takes a step forward in anger, only to be held at bay by one of the Hell hounds turning on him and snarling threateningly.

"I said _fuck __that_," Dean persists in the meantime, drawing the back of his hand across his bleeding mouth. "No deal, asshat. Cas can't give you something that he already gave to someone else."

Crowley blinks. "Come again?"

Dean stands upright again, dangling the grace in Crowley's face. "He already gave it to me. It's not his to deal anymore." He turns to lock eyes with Cas then, nothing but belligerence in his expression. "And even if it was, I still wouldn't let you have it."

"Dean," Castiel growls. "My grace is insignificant at this point in time. It is not worth going to Hell again over."

"Bullshit," Dean bites out. "It's not insignificant to _me.__"_ He holds up the vial for everyone to see. It seems impossibly bright in the darkness of the room suddenly, more filled with life than it had been since Castiel had ripped it apart from himself. "Cas, no part of you doesn't matter, you dumbass," Dean presses. "All of you, every bit of you is part of how we've gotten as far as we have, isn't it?" he shakes the cord clutched in his fist, "All that we went through, the fact that we managed to fight together to stop the fuckin' apocalypse makes this is part of my family now. So you don't go giving it away to demons, even when they ask nicely. You don't throw family away, Cas."

Castiel stares, something flaring in his chest with a fierce familiarity that is not unlike how he had felt standing in Chuck's kitchen the day Lucifer had been freed, waiting for the end to come. Dean had gone to Hell for Sam once and what it means when he says would do it again for Castiel.

"Yes," he finds himself answering, wide-eyed and wondering even as Crowley glares and prepares to snap his fingers, to call his dogs forward to kill the human. "I understand, Dean."

And then the room explodes in a brilliant flash of white.

* * *

When the shard breaks free in a magnificent display of ground shaking and lights exploding overhead, it sends everyone scrambling for purchase, demons and demon dogs included. In fact the Hell hounds yelp and recoil and Crowley seems to be smoking a little, and it is in the midst of that chaos that Dean sees Castiel light up like a Christmas tree for a moment, before swaying forward awkwardly, but thankfully maintaining his balance. It does not escape Dean's notice that the angel sword is out and clutched tightly in Cas's hands, and if there were ever a moment to use a diversion to his advantage, Dean supposes this is it.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and charges to the other side of the room, hoping very much that this means no being ripped apart by Hell hounds.

One kind of latches onto his pant leg last minute and Dean curses because maybe this means he's a goner anyway, except that before the thing can crawl its way up to his meatier parts, there's a yelp and a scream and something that sounds a lot like a sizzle and a pop.

Cas pulls Dean behind him, and when Dean looks closely, he thinks he can see smoke rising from the tip of Cas's sword—Cas's _archangel __sword__—_ that means the dog that just ruined Dean's last pair of good jeans just bit the dust in retribution. Great.

Or it would be, if Dean didn't think mini-Cas was looking a little green around the gills again, somehow impossibly small and cold against his chest, probably feeling about as overwhelmed by an archangel being erected in front of it as Dean is.

"Cas," he starts, but Cas doesn't look at him, just keeps his eyes on Crowley and his pack of demon puppies while carefully keeping both Winchesters behind him.

Crowley, looking a little stunned—singed around the edges is the best word for it— takes an unwitting step backwards, just as Cas gets this gleam in his eye that says this demon is _toast_.

"Right then. Pleasure doing business with you all," Crowley manages, even with Cas bearing down on him with all the righteous fury of one of Heaven's top seven.

The only thing that saves Crowley from getting a face full of pumped up angel grace is the snarling of one of the hounds, as it appears to jump up in a last-ditch effort to protect its master by latching onto Castiel's sword arm.

"Good boy, Growley," Crowley says quickly, if somewhat sadly. The demon's eyes narrow at Castiel, flashing black. "You'll regret this, Castiel. I can guarantee you that."

And then the demon is gone, leaving Cas with an incredibly devoted dog from Hell gnawing viciously on his arm.

"Cas?" Dean demands, about to step the hell in with the demon killing knife except that Sam is holding him back.

"I am fine," Castiel intones calmly, like there isn't four-legged demon spawn currently trying to take his limbs off. He reaches out with his free hand and placing in the air where Dean supposes the hound's head is and for a moment, his palm glows.

The growling, gnawing noises instantly turned to pained yelps and an explosion of black smoke.

Castiel shrugs his arm with a grunt, and Dean can only assume that the hound has been angelically exorcised just like a normal demon.

"Did we get the piece?" Sam breathes, almost unnecessarily. He looks kind of bewildered by the sudden swing in events though—and understandably so— so Dean will allow it. "How did we get it?"

"Apparently your brother and I are more devoted to one another than anything else in this room," Castiel answers vaguely, earning Dean a look from Sam that has his little brother's eyebrows somewhere up around the ozone layer.

"Oh really?" Sam asks.

"Shut it," Dean grinds out, because he's still mostly irritated at Cas for being so ready to jump into deals with demons—that demon in particular— _again_.

In fact, he's just about to lay into Cas for that little bit of brilliant strategizing, except that the angel stumbles a little right at that moment, just slightly forward, and Dean had forgotten that grace shards apparently have a recoil harder than a .50 caliber Desert Eagle.

So instead of yelling, Dean ends up kind of…hovering. And hoping his angel isn't going to explode or anything sometime soon. "Cas?" he offers, cautiously.

"I am fine," Cas repeats again, shaking his head slightly. "I am feeling…much stronger."

"Too strong?" Dean cuts in.

"This grace—even incomplete—has now surpassed my own, even at its strongest," Castiel reports, sounding a little breathy and exhilarated. It is not unlike the future!Cas, who had been tripping balls for about 80% of the time Dean had interacted with him, so this sign is not encouraging. "I will grow accustomed to it shortly," the angel adds, like _that__'__s_ what Dean is concerned about here.

"Yeah, okay," Dean mutters, feeling completely unconvinced and mostly helpless in the face of whatever the hell is going on inside of Cas right now. Mini-Cas choruses in mournful agreement, pulsing just once under Dean's hand and catching Castiel's fever-bright eyes with its light. Castiel watches the grace for a bit, and Dean wonders if he really _is_ tripping balls or something, except via the electrical surge of being plugged into an archangel outlet instead of from any pills or powders.

"What?" Sam asks, when they just kind of end up standing there for a moment. "Is something the matter?" he adds, in a tone that actually means _hey __maybe __we__ should__ get __out __of __here_.

"It just seems so… tiny," Castiel admits, still watching his old grace. "I did not realize how small it truly was." He pauses to look at Dean again. "I still do not think it is something worth going to Hell over, Dean."

"Fine," Dean grunts back, protectively tucking the vial back under his shirt again. "but it matters to me."

Castiel nods once. "Then do as you please. But know that I will not let you go to Hell again if it is my power to stop it," the angel says, eyes locked on the older Winchester's in a stubborn, uncompromising sort of way that simply confirms that Cas is part of the family now, blood or no blood.

Dean looks back at him and hopes he is conveying exactly how much he's absolutely not backing down from this either.

In the meantime, Sam fidgets. "Great. Good to hear, guys. I'm pretty sure the flashes of light and _explosions_ coming from the vet's office are going to bring the police here um, any second now. So…" he waves vaguely at Cas, in a way that means maybe he should angel-express them the hell out of here before they get arrested for exploding buildings.

Castiel finally tears his gaze from Dean's. "Of course."

Before anyone can say anything else, Dean feels fingertips being pressed to his forehead and the sensation of the bottom dropping out of his stomach which means they're across town and back in their room at the bed and breakfast again.


	11. Chapter 10

**Ten**

"So," Sam begins, once Dean is knee-deep in his watch-TV-and-explain-things-to-mini-Cas portion of the day and Cas has disappeared to stretch his wings or whatever it is he has to test out every time they get a new piece of him correctly placed in the puzzle.

Dean looks up at the sound of his brother's voice when it interrupts a particularly dramatic scene where Dr. Sexy is fighting his own evil clone (or twin brother; no one knows yet). Sam can't help but notice that there is a happy galaxy-swirl of grace cupped in his palm as he reclines on the bed closest to the bathroom and holds mini-Cas up like it will actually help the grace if it can see the television screen. "What's up, Sam?" Dean asks absently, keeping a surreptitious eye on whatever is happening on the screen.

Sam clears his throat and tries to sound as normal as possible. Which isn't a lot, under the circumstances, but he's trying okay. "Uh… so you and Cas are um… devoted to each other, huh?" he manages, and pretends to keep typing on his computer. It's very smooth.

Dean gives him a look like he smells one of Sam's post-burrito farts, but at least he's not still watching the TV out of the corner of his eye anymore, which probably means he's actually paying attention now. "Dude," is all he says.

Sam backs up quickly because he knows that tone. "Just saying," he says, in his best placating voice. "That's kind of…big. A big deal," he manages. Clearly years on the road with Dean have caused him to backtrack in all the emotional growth he'd experienced in college, away from the Winchester Way of Thinking. Pause. "I mean, the you part is a big deal. The Cas part maybe not so much," he adds, because yeah, _that_ whole side of the story has always been way obvious.

Dean scowls at him. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" he demands. "Of course Cas matters to me, Sam. Jesus," he adds when Sam just looks bewildered. And wow, that is _not_ the reaction Sam had been expecting _at__ all_. Dean looks like he's all disappointed too, like Sam should know that he's not a _total_ jerk like that.

Sam backtracks more. "Dude, I was just going to ask if you if you wanted to talk about it, is all. I'm not trying to suggest anything. Or say I didn't think he mattered to you."

"Want to talk about _what,_exactly?" Dean persists, just shy of fully irate now.

"About… that. About how you feel now that we all know that you uh… you feel that way about Cas."

Dean's eyes narrow and get flinty. "Feel what way?"

Wow this is going really swimmingly. Sam runs a hand through his hair. "You know, devoted. Like, willing to go to Hell for him level of devoted."

Dean studies him for a second. "You're not jealous are you?" his brother asks after a moment, in what is the obvious Dean Winchester conclusion to Sam's entire line of reasoning (which is to say, completely wrong).

"What? No! I'm not jealous. I was just wondering, I guess," Sam posits, cautiously. "You know, when that happened." It is a fair thing to wonder about, after all. It's not like Dean just lets anyone into their family circle willy nilly. The only club more exclusive that Sam knows of is the let-the-devil-wear-my-body-like-a-suit club, of which there remains only one living member.

Dean's brow furrows as he seems to think about that for the first time, and Sam can tell by the level of scrutiny that his brother is giving it that he can't really pinpoint the exact moment that Cas became so important to him. Eventually, Dean gives up and just says, "Yesterday. You were there, man."

"Uh huh," Sam replies, trying to keep the blatant skepticism from his voice. "Okay then."

Dean seems to catch the not-so-blatant skepticism that he hadn't managed to mask anyway. "What the hell are you getting at, Sammy?" he demands, looking super defensive now.

"Nothing," Sam says. Pause. Sigh. "Just… are there any other important realizations in there that I should be preparing for, maybe?" He looks sideways through his bangs at his big brother, wondering if Dean's picked up on the fact that they've got exactly two shards left and that they just so happen to be obedience and love. Sam has always been able to see patterns pretty easily because he's got the brains—or so Dean says— and what he sees right now is leading him to jump to the end conclusion that means his brother might just be on a collision course with stuff that involve feelings and alcohol and possibly dangerous Winchester reactions to things that involve inadvertently ending the world.

It's a thing they do.

Often out of a combination of duty and love. Which, go figure, is exactly what they have left to find between the three of them.

In the meantime, Dean just shakes his head at Sam like he has no idea what Sam is talking about. "No other big realizations about Cas," he says, carefully. "But I'm having a few about you right now, man. Like how it must be that time of the month and you're feeling kind of bloated and emotional. If you want, Samantha, I'll hop into the car right now and go get you some Midol and a couple of those heat patches you like so much, to help with the cramping."

This time, it's Sam's turn to make a face like he smells something putrid. "Dude," he protests, "don't be such a jerk." He pauses to shut his laptop before turning intense eyes on his brother. _I__ just __wonder __about __you __sometimes_, is what he wants to say, but Dean is getting fidgety on the bed and mini-Cas is starting to swirl chaotically, like it can sense Dean's roiling irritation and is on the verge of mirroring it. It is at that point when Sam throws his mental hands up in the air and decides that he gives up. "Fine. Whatever. Pretend I didn't bring it up." Knowing Dean, it's better if he just wings it anyway. Sam will just brace himself for obedience and love to erupt into an explosion of _whatever_ between Dean and Cas and hope that it is epic enough to save the world from an archangel that wants to bring on the end of times. Again.

In the meantime, he'll just try to figure out where the hell to go next from this end, using books and the internet and CNN for clues while Cas flexes his powers outside, hoping to catch the next whiff of fragrant archangel grace for him to try and chow down on next.

Dean gives Sam one last, frowny expression before going back to explaining the latest season of _Dr.__ Sexy,__ MD_ to mini-Cas while Sam's e-mail pings him with a new message from Bobby that is actually a message from Balthazar that actually just says _hurry __the __fuck __up,__things __going __badly,__love __Balthy-poo._

Which isn't helpful at all to Sam because nothing is being helpful to Sam right now, and he would yell at his brother to _help__ look __for __an __archangel__'__s __obedience_ except that Dean is very much in the middle of happy-fun-nurture-time with mini-Cas and the last time Sam had suggested that his brother cut it short, Dean had looked at him like he murdered puppies for fun on the weekends or something.

Which leaves Sam with Cas's vague words of, "It feels east of here," regarding the shard and no help from any other quarter except for his trusty sidekick Google and Google's trusty sidekick youtube.

So far, both of them are pointing him towards the creepy cult in Appalachian Virginia.

Which is, obviously, exactly what they need to make this crisscross-the-country experience complete.

* * *

Castiel finds himself in the swampy summer heat of New Jersey when he is forced to stop and take a breath; wings feeling strained and twitchy when he lands in an abandoned packing factory near the wharf. It smells of blood and fish and oil from the sea creatures that had been processed here, preserved and packed and shipped off to all corners of the world in order to feed the humans.

The angel is confused at the fact that he can know this by looking but that he is still tired from flight; with the shards of grace they have so far collected he knows he is much larger, much fuller than he had been before, even with his original grace at full power. And yet there are still limitations on his abilities that he hadn't had in his previous incarnation. Limitations which exist simply for the fact that he is not complete yet. In his mind he wonders if he is like one of the machines he can see on the factory floor, large and old and ominous but ultimately of little use at the moment, not until all the various parts can be fully upgraded, not until every cog and gear is capable of working in perfect concert as a single, completed whole.

In moments when he has expended himself like this, he can truly feel the open spaces inside, the gaping holes that he must fill before he can think to battle Raphael.

It is a curious thing to feel so vast at once and at the same time, so strangely empty.

"Well. Aren't you looking big and important like that?"

Castiel does not have to turn to know Balthazar is there, tired-sounding and rough around the edges, but thankfully still alive, still speaking to him.

"Balthazar," he greets, and when he glances to his left he sees his brother at his side again, looking exactly as he sounds.

"How's the scavenger hunt going, Cassy?" Balthazar quips, a careful breath of space between them even as he stands beside Castiel, as if there is a distance he is not allowed to breach now, either because part of his irreverent brother still reveres what it means to be an archangel or because he is disgusted with the piecemeal creature that stands before him, some sort of affront to God's intentions.

Castiel is not sure he wishes to have that clarified for him, and so he says, "You have news for me?" instead.

Balthazar nods, eyes never straying from Castiel's form. His expression is unreadable. "Just a bit. We did some information gathering," he begins, and pauses like the phrase is leaving a bad taste on his tongue. Castiel knows that by information gathering, Balthazar really means _torturing__ one __of __our __captured __brothers_, and the nuance sends a shiver of revulsion through him as well, despite the fact that it is something he has done countless times himself over the last year, despite the fact that he has _killed_ his own brothers before for less. "From the sounds of it, Raph's in a bit of snit over how little progress his demon bloodhounds are making. Seems like he's sending out his own teams to find you now."

Castiel sighs. "So then demons and angels both work against us. As you predicted."

Balthazar snorts, humorlessly. "That is about the gist of it, yes, Cassy. I might have a plan to…cause a little dissention in the whole demon angel alliance, but you know planning was never my strong suit."

Castiel eyes him. "But survival is."

Balthazar smirks a little. "Touché," he acknowledges, before he stops for a second, and gives his brother another careful once over. "But let's talk about you. How are you feeling?"

"Incomplete," Castiel answers, because it is the first word that comes to mind as an answer. "We are close, Balthazar."

Balthazar's eyebrow quirks. "Are you?"

"Two more pieces and I will be whole."

Balthazar somehow looks unconvinced, but refrains from speaking right off, hesitation knit in his brows.

"Is something the matter?" Castiel asks.

Balthazar withdraws with a self deprecating smile. "Nothing. I was just going to say something pointlessly saccharine for a moment. Forget I even entertained the thought."

Castiel is curious, but not enough to push his brother into sharing something he does not wish to. He's forced too many people who matter to him into situations they want no part of as is.

So they stand in silence for a little while, just looking at the complicated human machinery as it sits in its quiet graveyard, covered in blood and dirt and no longer of any consequence one way or another.

Eventually, Castiel hears Dean's prayers—somehow sounding faint and tinny even through the vastness of his senses— calling him back. "I must go," is what he tells Balthazar, needlessly.

Balthazar nods, a hint of humor in his tone, though Castiel is uncertain as to whether it is genuinely amused or only facetiously so. "Right. Well. I'll just get back to my own…fun, then." Balthazar takes a step back, before clearing his throat and adding, in all seriousness, "Take care, Cassy."

"You as well."

Both angels disappear without another word.

* * *

It is over dinner and lukewarm beer that Sam presents his case to Dean and Castiel, Dean eating a piece of pepperoni and sausage stuffed-crust while listening to his brother chatter on about why he thinks that the Natural Order Compound and its founder, David Green, is clearly the poster child for using archangel obedience shards like performance enhancing drugs because _nothing __else_ can possibly explain why he's so successful. Which Dean can get; it's like _Twilight_ all over again. That sort of shit just doesn't make sense unless someone has either a contract with a demon or luck from Heaven on their side to make it work.

"Apparently this guy's convinced several dozen people to give up their lives and their families and all their worldly possessions so they can join him in this cult and call him master, or something," Sam explains, while Dean watches Cas marvel at the wonders of cheese-filled crust and mini-Cas kind of curls up in a corner of the vial like it hates everything. Sam clicks through some random links on a random webpage in the meantime, where a guy with overly-bleached teeth and a receding hairline smiles at them from the corner. "I mean, most of the info I'm referencing is right here on the official website so we can't be sure how accurate it is, but if they were going to lie, you'd think they'd try to cover it up better," Sam points out, making a face like he has read some very disturbing things on this page in the last few hours. "So far, this guy promises everyone rich rewards in the afterlife if they follow his rules, but none of them seem to be based on any preexisting religious practices I can think of, except for maybe the beatings."

Dean balks. "Beatings?"

"Ritualistic," Sam clarifies. "Apparently it's supposed to divorce his followers from their sense of self—their own bodies are worthless—and work towards the good of the community instead."

"What leads you to believe this is the work of a shard?" Castiel inquires in all sincerity, his head going tilty and his eyes looking Sam over like he doesn't understand the point of this exercise.

"The timing is right," Sam says. "Three years ago, David Green was the successful CEO of a multinational corporation. In his bio, it says that he'd been cheating investors, suckering employees, some Enron level type stuff, basically."

Dean's eyebrows jump up as he pops the delicious, delicious cheese-stuffed crust of his slice of pizza into his mouth. "And an archangel grace chose to stick to this scumbag? Seems kind of the opposite of what we've been seeing so far."

Sam shrugs. "I don't know, he kind of sounds like God to me when you look at it in a big picture sort of way. Doing things that don't make sense, messing with good people, never having to explain himself?"

Dean snorts. "Okay, point."

Castiel looks torn between indignation at the slander and reluctant agreement.

Sam pushes on. "Anyway, something must have happened, because he went from being a multi-millionaire to living in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of cultists without electricity or running water. And he's trying to pull in as many people as he can into his lifestyle."

"Apparently it is working," Castiel murmurs, looking squinty-eyed as he stares at Sam's computer screen and reads through the info there. "Membership in his organization is growing rapidly."

"Exactly," Sam says. "And I've read through the list of their practices. Trust me when I say the _only_ way he could convince people to do some of this stuff is with divine assistance from the obedience shard."

Dean snags another piece of pizza and automatically doesn't like where this is going. "So what, now we join a cult?"

He doesn't like the answering gleam in Sam's eye one bit either.

* * *

"Now don't get offended when I ask you this, because it's just a question I ask everyone when you step upon the sacred grounds of our combine. But what exactly are you boys looking for by joining us?" David Green himself asks Sam, Dean, and Castiel the following morning, when the three of them show up at the compound's visitor and information center after a rapid trip via Almost Archangel Airways Flight Cas-You-Asshole.

"A…change," Sam offers, doing that earnest eye thing of his again while Dean is obviously trying his best not to be very obviously weirded out by Green's too-white teeth and his too-big smile. Castiel is not trying at all; it's clear the angel finds Green's appearance and mannerisms disturbing, like he's something that no one is truly prepared to look upon without their eyeballs bursting into flame.

When Dean and Castiel offer no help on the explanation front, Sam grits his teeth and pushes on. "And by change, I mean that we want to look for a more simple way to live our lives. A more rewarding one. We'd heard good things about this from the testimonials on your webpage."

"Ah, yes. Some lovely words our members have shared with you." He claps Castiel encouragingly on the back, which makes Castiel look at him like he is trying to see _through_ him, and into whether or not this man actually possesses a shard of archangel grace or if the people here are just _that_ crazy. From over the back of Green's shoulder, Sam makes abortive movements in the hopes that Cas will stop being a creeper.

But Green just stares right back at the angel, that creepy smile never changing for a moment, despite how awkward the whole thing is making Sam and Dean feel just from watching.

"You have a good, steady gaze, son," Green declares after a minute, and smiles that white-washed smile at Cas one more time. "Shows you're deep. I like that." His grin lingers a little too long on Cas's curious eyes before he turns and guides them through the doors of the surprisingly normal-looking visitor's center, with its receptionists and computers and showroom-floor couches.

Then they pass outside, into the muggy heat of an early Virginia summer and go what feels like a hundred years back in time.

Contrasting with the dentist's office feel of the visitor's center is a dirt road lined on either side by simple, one-room looking cabins, outside of which men and women of various ages linger somewhat aimlessly, looking peaceful if vacant, relaxed if sedentary. They do however, all rise in cheerful unison at the sight of Green, and a chorus of, "Good morning, Lord!" greets the Winchesters as Green simply smiles and nods his thanks for the greeting.

"This is the housing quarter," Green explains to the three newcomers. "Every member has a single room, a single bed, a single window. Every structure is identical to the others. The clothes, as you can see, are standardized."

Dean stares at everyone's white burlap sacks and makes a face at Sam that makes Sam look at him reprovingly because he's clearly not trying to fit in or look interested at all. Dean can't help it if those sacks aren't doing anything for anyone's figure. Some of those chicks might actually be hot otherwise.

"Everyone is equal here," Green explains, "thus we have no need for differentiation."

Dean looks Green over, in his douchy silk pants and button down. "Except for you."

"Well of course," he says, "The Lord does have to be different from everyone else, I suppose."

"Huh," Dean says, and earns himself an all out smack from Sam. Luckily, a distraction presents itself from these antics in the form of a young woman who approaches them, eyes trained on the ground. Once within three feet of Green she kneels at his feet.

"I apologize if I'm interrupting, Lord," she begins carefully, "but my cycle will begin soon and you have not instructed me as to who will breed me."

This gets both Winchesters to stop everything they are doing to stare down at the woman—who can't be any older than twenty— in horror.

Green seems nonplussed by the supplication. "It's not a problem, Angela. I was thinking perhaps Joseph would make a good father to your child; the both of you are equally pleasing to look at, and so your offspring should be as well."

Angela lowers herself so that her forehead nearly touches the ground. "Thank you, Lord." She gets up, head still bowed, and backs away.

"Wow, you really make all the decisions here don't you?" Dean bites out after a moment, and is on the verge of maybe losing his breakfast. "Does she even like Joseph?"

"Everyone here loves everyone else equally," Green shrugs. "The only person they are allowed to love more is me." He says it with such surety that Dean is hard put not to pull back and punch him in the face. This shit is just facts for the guy obviously, even as he ruins people's lives, even if he takes charge of them like slaves and makes them do whatever he says.

"It must have been hard," Sam interrupts, before Dean can run his mouth off and piss off well, probably everyone here. "I mean, having them let go of everything they were attached to in their lives to surrender it all to you. Does that…does that take long?"

"Not at all," Green says with a wave of his hand. "Really, they're all usually ready for it once they've completed the tour."

"You convince them in such a short amount of time?" Castiel asks, opening his mouth for the first time in a while as he abandons his intense examination of a nearby tree.

"It's not about convincing. It's about them realizing the benefits on their own," Green says, again with that creepy smile at Cas, and Dean thinks maybe Green wants to have the angel personally worship him in the next few hours, probably on his knees. He scowls and steps into Green's line of sight.

"What benefits?" he demands, before Sam can stop him. Because from what he can see, they give up everything to come out to the middle of nowhere, to be stripped of their individuality, to let this douchebag with the unnerving gaze tell them how to breathe and sleep and eat and live. It's all a big downside as far as he can see.

Green's smile never waivers in the face of these questions; it reminds Dean a little bit of Alistair, a little bit of Lucifer in Sam's body. "It's about easing the burden of responsibility," Green explains, before gesturing at them to continue up the path, towards the top of the mountain. "You see, responsibility is this incredibly heavy weight people carry on their shoulders day in and day out; their actions and their decisions take a toll on us, no matter how good or how bad the outcome may be. I'm here to alleviate that burden. I take it on for them. I free them from that, from the weight of decision making, of having to think about consequences. I do that by telling them what to do. They don't have to worry about anything. Just trust that what I tell them to do is in their best interests."

"And it works?" Dean asks, sounding incredulous.

Green doesn't seem offended by his incredulity, waving his arms around him in an all-expansive gesture. "See how peaceful it is? How satisfied everyone is? This is the power of trusting in someone else enough that nothing else matters." He looks at Dean in this grossly sympathetic way, like he understands everything Dean has ever been through. "Haven't you ever just wanted to not be responsible for anything, Dean?"

A moment.

And then Dean scowls, which makes Green laugh. "C'mon," he urges, "let me take you to the top of the mountain. The view is beautiful…vast. The kind of largeness that can make a man do some real soul searching."

He picks up his step after that, sidling up next to Cas on the trail while Sam gives Dean this look that is somehow concerned and reprimanding at the same time. "Dude," he says, in a hushed whisper, "stop being so antagonistic."

"This douche is tricking people into being his slaves, man!" Dean hisses back.

Sam sighs and gestures off the path, where a couple of men wearing the white-sack things are chatting amiably with one another while collecting wood. When Green passes them they stop to wish their Lord good morning, which Green cheerfully returns before they continue on their way. "He's not keeping anyone here against their will," Sam says. "There's nothing we can do about the choices these people are making. They decided to obey him, and this is where they are. What we need to concentrate on is finding the shard, because if we don't, then the world ends and it doesn't matter anyway."

Dean sighs, because his brother's logic has this habit of instantly squashing his righteous indignation. "Fine. Asshat needs to stop perving on Cas though," he adds out of spite, when he glances up the path and sees a hand at the small of the angel's back, guiding him up a rocky outcropping along the incline.

The corner of Sam's lip twitches upward unexpectedly. "Yeah okay," is all he says, before clapping Dean on the shoulder in the same way you clap the shoulder of a guy who just got cheated on by his girlfriend in broad daylight because he's kind of a sucker.

Dean decides to ignore him.

* * *

They stop for a breather twenty minutes later at a cabin that looks at least three times bigger than all the other ones in the housing area; Green explains that it's their factory basically, where furniture and clothing and other necessities are made by people who he has assigned to be the commune's carpenters or weavers or whatever else it is that needs to be done first. They get a brief tour of the facility and the workers inside seem overjoyed to have a visit from their Lord, singing high praises and showing off their accomplishments in the hopes of a small kernel of acknowledgement from Green.

Dean takes the opportunity to slip away to the side a little, where a woman is sitting, basking in the whatever-it-is that is Green. "Hey there," Dean greets her, when he manages to catch her eye.

"Oh, hello," she says, and the light in her gaze dims a little, though she looks at Dean pleasantly enough. "You are receiving the tour."

"Yeah," Dean acknowledges. "Mr. Green is showing us around."

She flutters. "He takes great care to make all newcomers feel welcome."

Dean tries not to roll his eyes, keeping the plastic smile on his face by clenching his teeth tightly. "Uh, yeah. So I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions. You know, as someone who lives here."

"Of course. Our Lord always says we must help each other see the light."

"Yeah, I'll bet."

She blinks at him like she doesn't know what he means by that.

He coughs. "So I was wondering," he hedges, "you guys do whatever he tells you to, right?"

She nods.

"Uh…why?"

Her eyes go wide. "Because we must. Because the sanctity of this place relies solely on obedience. If we listen to him, if we do not bother ourselves with questions or personal concerns, then our actions will always serve to benefit the greater good of our community, rather than the individual. We obey because it strips us of the selfishness humans innately harbor."

Dean stares at her. "And giving up your identity benefits everyone? How?"

"We are all base, evil creatures at heart," she says, sadly. "To listen to ourselves, to our own wishes and desires, is to fall off the path. To be able to listen to our Lord instead, to put him before ourselves, is to deny our dirty human nature and aspire to something greater."

Dean refrains from slapping a hand to his forehead, but only because Castiel appears at his side then, nods once to the girl, and pulls Dean away by the arm. "The shard is here," he confirms, once they are the only two within earshot.

"Here? Where?" Dean looks around the factory for signs of glowing things.

Castiel shakes his head. "On this mountaintop."

Dean sighs. "Oh that narrows it down." He runs a hand through his hair in a gesture that is disturbingly like one Sam would make. "Seriously, if I have to listen to any more of this garbage, I might actually give in and punch people."

Castiel seems confused by this. "Why?"

"Because this whole place is a crock of shit," Dean answers flatly. "And it sucks that a guy like Green gets to benefit from these people being gullible."

"Obedience is obedience, Dean, as corrupted as this example of it may be. Green is a man who has always been accustomed to having his words obeyed; of course the shard for obedience then went to him under the circumstances."

"So what, it's just blind devotion? No thoughts, no feelings, no choices, no nothing?"

"It is obedience," Castiel says again, simply. "As my Father intended it."

Dean scowls. "So you're defending this thing while it's taking away all of these people's right to free will?"

Castiel's eyes darken. "I did not say that," he murmurs, voice a low, dangerous rumble. "All I have said is fact. This is obedience as my Father intended it. Blind, unquestioning, absolute. It does not mean I agree with it. It does not mean I enjoy or support this mutation of it."

Dean relaxes a little bit at that, but there's still a tense line between his eyebrows as he pinches them together, trying to make sense of it. "So what is your definition?"

"Trust," Castiel says, without hesitation. "Obedience stems from trust, Dean. I obeyed God because I loved and trusted in His will and it was the best way I knew how to manifest that trust into action. I stopped obeying when that was no longer the case. I stopped when…" he trails off abruptly, shaking his head. "I stopped."

The unspoken _for__ you_ hangs in the air between them, and even unsaid it flashes like a big freaking day-glo banner in the air in front of Dean's eyes, because he knows that Cas took his word over God's in the end, that he chose to trust Dean Winchester before his own Father and that he has been living with those consequences every day since that moment.

Castiel trusts Dean. He obeys Dean because he _chooses_ to, as an outward sign of his faith in Dean.

Dean's shoulders slump as he huffs a sigh and holds a hand up in surrender. "Okay, fine. I get it. I do. That doesn't make it suck any less."

Castiel shrugs one shoulder, in a move he must have pulled from Sam's repertoire. "They are simply obeying his will because they believe his judgment will benefit them," the angel says, without a hint of judgment in his tone. "It is not so long ago that you or I would have deferred our own wills to those of our respective fathers."

Dean scowls at the reminder because it was uncalled for—and true— but mostly uncalled for.

Castiel pushes on. "We have both since learned the value of making our own choices. They have not. You are the one who taught me that not all humans can be expected to be the same."

Dean deflates a little at that, because like Sam logic, Cas reasoning can sometimes—every once in a while—be kind of convincing. "Yeah okay. Let's find the freaking shard then and get the hell out of here, then. Just because it's happening doesn't mean I want to watch it. Especially if people get _bred_ here."

Castiel makes a sound like they're in agreement about that at least, and before long, Green tears himself away from his fanboys and fangirls and takes the three of them back outside.

* * *

The hike to the top of the mountain takes another grueling thirty minutes of steep uphill climbing, but eventually they arrive at a jagged looking cliff that Green steps right out to the very edge of, throwing his arms open wide in some choreography ripped off of _Titanic_. "This is my power point," he says wondrously, gaze almost far away as he stares out at the expanse of mountains in the distance. "One day I was walking around up here on a hike. I'd just closed a multi-million dollar buy out, bought a new house in Atlanta, was going to get married to a girl who danced for the Hawks. Prettiest Georgia peach you could ever imagine. And I got to the top of this hill, and I couldn't help but think that I still didn't feel satisfied. There were still things I wanted, I just didn't know _what._"

Dean refrains from rolling his eyes, while Cas's light up with thoughtful curiosity as he steps after Green towards the ledge.

Green seems too far gone in whatever flashback he's reliving to notice. "Then I took a chance and came out as far as I could along the edge of this cliff and when I looked down, I had my realization. The reason I was feeling like that was because _everyone_ feels like that. They're all looking for something to catch them in case they fall. If they don't think it's there, they won't chance stepping out onto the ledge like this and getting the best view in the world. It's a heavy order to have that kind of courage. It's not something that just comes along every day, you know." Green allows a rueful smile. "So instead of look for it for myself, I told myself I'd become that instead, for everyone who was willing to accept me as their safety net. I was never afraid of falling."

"So to become their safety net, you decided the best way was to become their God?" Sam asks, and even he can't hide the skepticism from his voice when he asks it this time.

Green chuckles. "It's like that Bible story about Abraham and Isaac, don't you think? If someone is willing to give up what is most important to them on Earth and submit to my will, then I will use all my power to care for them in return. I will always catch them. They never have to fear falling again, so long as they obey."

Cas is right behind him at this point, peering out over the ledge as well, a contemplative look in his eye that makes the grace against Dean's chest jump and squirm in an all too recognizable feeling. When Green finally realizes that the angel is right there beside him, he almost startles, but regains himself with admirable speed and smiles again, almost leering, as he hooks an arm around Castiel's shoulders and quickly steers him away from the cliff. "Well. Let's get back to the others, shall we?" he asks brusquely, looking vaguely annoyed at Cas for intruding on his moment, or on his power point, or whatever.

Castiel just wordlessly nods and slips out from under Green's arm, to drift down to Dean's side again. Sam hastily takes up the space beside Green, feigning interest and asking the man questions about the day he'd come to that realization and whether or not he'd seen any flashes of light or divine signs that he had reached a holy epiphany or something.

"Well?" Dean asks, when Cas is out of the fake Lord's reach again. "You feel what I felt?"

"The shard is there," Castiel acknowledges. "Though I am under the impression he does not like the thought of others trespassing upon his power point."

"Well if it's what's giving him the juice to keep tricking these people I guess that makes sense."

The two share a silent look; eventually they wordlessly agree to slip away later.

* * *

The rest of the tour is basically Sam pretending to care about what they're seeing and Dean trying to think up a strategy on how to pull this off. The visitor's guest cabin or whatever is basically right behind the visitor's center, which means Cas will probably have to zap them up to the peak under cover of darkness to avoid detection (and having to battle the members of the commune, who all look and sound like they'd be willing to go kamikaze for Green in a fight to the death if he asked them to).

So Dean endures the rest of the day (as well as the meals that involve no meat and no salt and no sugar), endures Green's gross leers at the women preparing the food, at Cas, and occasionally at him, and after what seems like an unendurable amount of time, Green finally leads them back to the visitor's cabin, saying with regret that he'd invite them out for the night's breeding showcase—and that better not mean what Dean thinks it means— except that it is a sacred ritual by moonlight that outsiders absolutely cannot see or participate in.

"Too bad," Green murmurs, with another appraising look at Castiel and the Winchesters, "your genes are very appealing." Pause. Leer. "Well, there will be other chances after you join. And I sincerely hope that you all choose to."

"Yeah, uh, we'll just hang out here and think about things, thanks," Sam manages, and closes the door on Green while he's making gross, come-hither eyes at Cas straight out of some low budget 80s porno.

Dean manages to wait a whole five seconds before he gives a full body shudder and says, "Well now I just feel dirty."

Castiel doesn't seem particularly bothered. "You do have appealing genes," he says, obviously meaning both of them but looking right at Dean when he speaks, which makes Dean's face go red and his eyes narrow.

Cas just keeps his eyes on Dean, social cues be damned. "Though if you were to procreate, it is likely your descendents will be used down the line to potentially end the world again, so I would suggest that only one of you do it, and only once, if possible."

"So uncomfortable now," Sam mutters, while Dean barks, "Dude, personal boundaries!" at the angel.

Castiel only seems to mentally shrug before extending a hand to either Winchester. "Shall we return to the cliff?"

"Please," they both say.

* * *

They arrive back at the foot of Green's power point in a quiet rush of air, Dean holding onto Cas for balance and Sam holding on to him. The sun has just disappeared under the peaks of the distant mountains and it looks almost idyllic at that moment, the kind of spot you see in movies when two lovers finally share that momentous first kiss under the combination of waning sunlight and early stars.

Which is exactly the kind of atmosphere you want when you are digging up pieces of your BFF's dead brother while your own brother blinks kind of owlishly at you and your angel. "So," Sam decides after a beat, "I guess you two should…do whatever it is you do."

Dean glares. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that the last shard I got directly involved in got someone stabbed," Sam drawls, around what is clearly an attempt at suppressing that annoying smirk of his. "You guys obviously do it better without input from me."

Dean glowers but can't exactly argue the point. Triumphant, Sam excuses himself to go and take a piss after that, because the communal bathroom back at the commune had looked like the ones in _Schindler__'__s __List_ and _Slumdog __Millionaire_ had mated and had horrible stinky outhouse babies.

Castiel, taking Sam's words at face value, simply turns to Dean, and from there, the two of them stand quietly at the top of a mountain while trying to figure out how, exactly, to coax obedience out of the ground and away from the crazy commune that is right now, doing its best to impregnate some girls with the seed of the most genetically acceptable male specimens available as ordered by their Lord.

To be honest, Dean isn't sure he can get more obedient than that, but Cas looks determined and he figures that's half the battle, or something.

He turns to the angel and after a moment, clears his throat. "Well? What's the plan, Columbo?"

Cas just kind of blinks at him. "The plan is to get the shard, Dean."

Dean sighs. Tells himself to have patience. "Okay. How?"

Castiel's brow furrows, but he doesn't answer right off. Weird silence ensues, until Cas tilts his head a little and suggests, "Perhaps you could give me an order. I will do whatever you want."

Dean's mind automatically connects the dots between his last thoughts on obedience and what Cas is telling him to do. Blood rushes to his face inexplicably, and he's pretty sure he feels mini-Cas crack a metaphorical eye in curiosity from under his shirt. "Uh…"

Castiel just kind of stands there, expectant. Like Dean's ordered him around plenty of times before, like it's old hat and he's ready and willing the minute Dean gives the word.

Suddenly, Dean kind of feels like a douchebag.

Castiel notices his reticence and quirks a questioning brow at him. "I find it difficult to believe you are suddenly out of orders, Dean," he says all Spock-like, and _that_ makes Dean feel even _more_ douchy, like he's been beating a puppy or something and now the puppy thinks it's weird when it _doesn__'__t_ get its ass kicked.

Eventually, Dean looks pointedly away, though he does open his mouth to suggest that they try something maybe less conventional than him demanding something of Cas.

So of course that's when Sam appears in front of them again, flanked on either side by two bulky, serious-faced angels in matching black suits that must mean they work for Raphael.

Timing. Clearly Sam Winchester has it in spades.

* * *

Castiel whirls when he feels the familiar presence of his brothers and despairs at the sight of Sam placed between them, looking a mixture of sheepish and annoyed at being captured. He is unharmed though, which is what matters. Castiel hopes he can keep him that way.

"Sam!" Dean shouts, and has to be physically restrained by Castiel's hand on his arm to keep from charging forward, fists (ineffectually) flying. Sam shoots Dean a look that tells him to cease and desist, even as Castiel's iron grip around his forearm precludes him from making himself a second hostage.

"Castiel," the angel on Sam's left booms without preamble, "surrender to us or the human dies."

"Hayyel," Castiel greets in the meantime, and is pleased to find his voice still even considering the fact that two of Raphael's henchmen have currently taken Sam hostage. As he speaks, he very carefully draws Dean closer to his side, eyes trained on the two angels standing beside Sam at the very edge of a _cliff_.

Hayyel grins, a feral glint in his eye as he and the smaller Hael stand with Sam between them. They are not touching him, however, either because they find contact with humans debasing or because they wish to avoid the taint of Lucifer that stains Sam's blood. Castiel knows the feeling of the second option all too well, remembers the overpowering sensation of revulsion he'd felt before, upon first seeing Sam before him. But that had been a lifetime ago; nothing has tainted Sam in his eyes for a long time now. In all likelihood, he is the only amongst his brethren who thinks this way.

Angels have always avoided contact with the vessel of Lucifer, for as long as he has existed. Castiel thinks he must use this to his advantage somehow. "How did you find us?" he asks Hayyel in the meantime, feigning surprise and letting the edge of fear creep into his tone.

"We were not looking for you," Hayyel says, not paying either of the humans any particular attention as he focuses on the only real threat here: Castiel. In the meantime, Dean's eyes dart desperately from side to side and Castiel knows he is looking for some sort of opening he can use, some sort of distraction that will get his brother to safety. Hayyel does not notice though, simply smirks and barks, "How could we find you, when your humans are masked from the eyes of Heaven and you have turned yourself into such an abomination as to be unrecognizable to your brethren? That we stumbled upon you in our search was pure happenstance."

Castiel's eyes narrow. "Then you are here for the shard. I will not let you take it."

"If you do not, we will kill the human. We will rip apart his soul and scatter the atoms across the universe so that not even you will be able to resurrect him again."

Hayyel's bloodthirsty declaration makes Hael wince a little, though he stands firm while Hayyel grins at Castiel like a wild animal.

"Hael," Castiel says, turning to the weaker of the two, "an angel of kindness would profess do such a thing to an innocent bystander?"

"Hael and Hayyel? Seriously?" Dean pipes up when he hears the second angel's name. "Does Raphael send teams in alphabetically or something?" His tone is laced with false bravado in an attempt to draw their attention to him rather than Sam.

But he is resolutely ignored by all angels present, as Hael frowns at Castiel instead. "You give us no choice but to resort to this violence, Castiel. You blaspheme when Raphael has become the true ruler of Heaven. You create a need for this war by refusing to stand down to those who were created to be better than us. You aspire to become more than you are, and as such, you become the creature we see before us, an abomination, an eyesore. It is not we who kill this human, but your hand that forces us to."

"You follow one who would destroy the world, Hael," Castiel says, not taking his eyes off of Hael as he takes a step forward. "What kindness would remain if Earth no longer existed? What is kindness can survive if you heartlessly fight to destroy that which our Father loved best?"

Hayyel looks impatient. "Enough!" he growls. "We will take the shard one way or another, Castiel," he says plainly. "You are an added bonus. We will release Sam Winchester if you agree to become our prisoner instead."

"Like _hell_," Dean snarls, which earns him a quelling glare from Castiel.

"Dean," he says, voice full of reprobation.

Dean looks back, eyes wild with indignation. "What, Cas?" he bites out, on the edge of losing all patience, "_What_?"

Castiel locks eyes with him for a moment, as stern and demanding as he knows how to be, as he's learned how to be after leading an army, after battling archangels for the fate of humanity. "Dean," he says again, lower, voice barely audible.

Hayyel, impatient, takes a step forward, leaving Hael at Sam's side as he hefts his sword threateningly at Castiel and Dean. "Your answer, Castiel?" Hayyel bellows hotly, even as Castiel summons his own sword and allows it to slip into his palm through the sleeve of his coat. "Or are you okay with Sam Winchester's death simply because he is not the favorite of your two pets?"

Castiel ignores him. Instead, he reaches out with his free hand and grasps Dean's shoulder, pulling the human tightly against his chest in quiet embrace.

At the ledge, Sam's eyebrows dart upward, even as Hayyel frowns in disgust and Hael stares in surprise.

"Saying your goodbyes, then?" Hayyel snorts, tone derisive at the sight of an angel debasing himself with human contact. "Hurry, Castiel. Our offer is not of infinite duration!"

Eventually, Castiel pulls away from Dean, who looks him in the eye questioningly.

"Are you ready, Dean?" Castiel asks.

And then Dean's eyes go hard, determined. He nods once, definitively. "Yeah."

Castiel takes a step backwards and touches two fingers to Dean's forehead.

* * *

The feeling of the bottom of the world dropping out lasts approximately half a second before they find themselves behind Sam and his angel entourage; Dean does exactly what Cas told him to do as he hefts the sword the angel had passed him during their impromptu embrace and slams it in the back of Hael's neck before the nervous little guy can move. There's a sense of regret there, killing an angel of kindness or whatever, but at the same time, that douchebag still threatened to scatter Sam across the universe, so the feeling doesn't last long.

There's a flash of light that means dying angel and Sam slams his eyes shut as Dean turns to Cas just in time to toss him his sword again; Cas manages to catch it, but the distraction is enough for Hayyel to open up a thin, glowy gash across Castiel's chest with a swipe of his own sword. Cas gasps in pain, staggers back, and leaves himself completely helpless for a moment, in which Hayyel's bulky vessel grabs onto Cas's arm with his free hand and spins him around. Hayyel throws Cas down the hill with a satisfied grin. He follows as Cas hits the ground with an impact that feels like it shakes the whole mountaintop, that visibly cracks the rock layer underneath Cas's back. Hayyel roars and appears in a blink in front of Cas, in time to stomp on the overthrown angel's sword arm before he can bring the weapon up to defend himself.

Which leaves the situation as follows: there is a really crazy looking pissed off angel standing between Cas and the Winchesters. While the Winchesters are standing between said really crazy looking pissed off angel and the edge of a _freaking __cliff_.

And Dean's reaction to that? His reaction to seeing Hayyel his sword above his head and leering triumphantly down at Cas?

He grabs the nearest good-sized rock and throws it as hard as he can at the back of Hayyel's head. It hits the messenger of Raphael with a good, solid _thunk_.

The angel turns with a snarl, giving Cas enough time to breathe, light leaking out of that slash across his chest in a way that makes Dean nervous. "You," Hayyel growls at him, eyes kind of wild, a bit like a werewolf's during the full moon, "you _dare_ to strike down _angels_? I will kill you and resurrect you so that I can kill you again, a thousand times for each of my brothers you have destroyed!" he vows darkly. "You slew the only angel left in Heaven who might have granted you a merciful death."

Hayyel smiles. "I am no such angel."

"Uh, Dean…" Sam begins, looking nervous as the cry of wolves suddenly pierces the air around them.

"The fuck," Dean mutters, and then there is the sound of shuffling and growling, eyes glowing at them from the brush and the darkness. A bear steps out of the tree line and stands on its back legs, rearing up to look about ten feet tall and _angry._

"Uh, I'm guessing Hayyel means he's the angel of uh… animals, maybe?" Sam mutters, eyes darting from a pissed-off looking raccoon to his left and the pack of wolves emerging to the right. An eagle screams overhead.

"They will rip apart your flesh piece by piece and I will make Castiel watch every moment of it," Hayyel promises, grinding his foot down on Castiel's arm again. To Cas's credit, he doesn't make a noise, doesn't react to the obvious crunch of broken bone that makes Dean wince on instinct. "Then I will take you to Raphael, and you will answer for your crimes, Castiel."

"Cas?" Dean demands, and takes a careful step backwards when one of the wolves snaps and snarls at him, hanging out a little too close to home. He hopes the angel has a few more brilliant plans up his sleeve, because he definitely did not survive the apocalypse just to get his ass handed to him by _Balto_.

"Dean," Castiel says, voice somehow steady in everything. "I need you to jump." He says it very matter-of-factly, no hint of regret or hesitation.

And it's kind of crazy and possibly the worst plan Dean has heard of _ever_, but isn't that what Dean had been going for earlier, before Hayyel and company crashed this party? He feels mini-Cas hum in quiet encouragement against his chest and that's basically it.

It's like Cas had said earlier (and yes, Dean _does_ listen, always listens when it counts, he likes to think): obedience is about trust. And trust to Dean Winchester has always been about knowing a person, knowing what motivates them and how they think and what they hold dear.

And when it comes right down to it, Dean trusts Cas. He has no reason not to. Not after everything.

So he doesn't hesitate when he grabs Sam's arm with one hand, clutches mini-Cas tightly with the other, and runs them both off the edge of the cliff without a backwards glance.

* * *

Castiel watches Dean and Sam's heads dip under the ledge before turning back to Hayyel, who looks slightly confused but mostly irritated that his creatures hadn't had the chance to take the Winchesters apart in front of Castiel's eyes.

He doesn't have very long to feel anything though, because the earth beneath them begins to rumble again and there is a glow in the air that Castiel is beginning to associate with success. He closes his eyes and offers silent thanks that Dean obeyed, that Dean can—despite everything— still trust him.

And that is enough. It must be, because that is the moment when the obedience shard unexpectedly slams into his chest in a burst of light and a roar of thunder, sending Hayyel stumbling backwards with the heat of the bonding, the archangel's grace burning the edges of his as it sluices by, too close to be completely safe.

"No," Hayyel breathes, as his animals yelp and hiss and screech and run for safety, away from the fire of archangel grace. "This is not possible! You, who has fallen, who has rebelled, who has defiled the will of our Father!"

Castiel has heard these words many times before. Instead of wasting time responding he stands slowly, stretching his wings—both old and new— and clutches his sword in his hands. He steps towards Hayyel, whose own wings have been burned from their contact with Gabriel's grace shard, and solemnly shoves the sharp point of the blade into the back of Hayyel's neck without hesitation, without a word of sorrow or regret or goodbye to one who had been his brother since time's infancy.

A burst of light ripples across the air around them as Hayyel screams his final rage and slumps, the silhouette of his mangled wings burning themselves into the ground alongside his body in death, grace shattering into pieces and scattering to the winds.

And then Castiel falls to his knees, tired from the bonding, from the weight of the new wings that give him the mark of archangel and the death of two more brothers by his actions.

Silence reigns for a moment, on the mountaintop. Castiel takes the time to breathe, to fold heavy wings against his backside.

And then Dean's voice, irate sounding from worry, suddenly breaks the stillness of the night around him.

"Cas? What the_ hell_, man?"

Castiel allows himself a moment to smile. He's not sure why.

* * *

"Jesus, Dean, you could have warned me!" Sam gripes later, as the two brothers claw their way back up the side of the cliff to the top of the mountain. The rocky outcropping they had landed on about ten feet below Green's Power Point had been hard and a little unforgiving on their knees, especially since they hadn't _expected_ the ledge, or that they would survive the fall at all.

"Hey, I didn't know it was there either!" Dean bitches back, accepting the hand Castiel offers him as the angel effortlessly pulls them back to the top, where Hael and Hayyel's borrowed bodies lay sprawled out and bleeding on the ground.

This information just seems to make Sam even more incredulous. "You jumped and _didn__'__t_ know we weren't going to die?" he exclaims, eyes wide. "What? Why?"

Dean shrugs, feeling suddenly sheepish when he had been so sure a moment ago. "I dunno, I figured we'd you now, splat at the bottom. But at least that way Cas could bring us back or something, later."

"Oh my god," Sam mutters, articulately, that big craggy forehead of his getting all furrowed as he tries to come to terms with Dean's obviously flawed reasoning. "Oh my _god_."

Dean turns to Cas next, hoping for some sort of help or something, but Cas is just looking at him all enigmatically, like Dean's this puzzle he'll never figure out or understand even if he had a million or a billion years to make an attempt.

"You obeyed," the angel says after a moment, needlessly, and Dean wants to growl at him and tell him to shut it, to say that he only did it because mini-Cas thought it might be a good idea. But he realizes that's crazy talk, and mini-Cas is definitely not talking—or whatever it does— to him right now because it's too busy being curled up into a tight ball about the size of the nail on Dean's pinky finger, like all the hours he'd spent over the last few days talking to it and playing it music amounted to jack squat.

"And so what, Dean obeyed and you got the shard? Just like that?" Sam asks, filling the silence between Dean and Cas with his indignation and disbelief. "How is that showing more obedience than the people Green is conning into his bizarre eugenics program?"

Castiel's head tilts sideways. "You," he says to Sam, voice flat, "should know by now, the monumental task of getting Dean to listen to someone else."

"Hey!" Dean protests, on principle.

Sam just considers this for a moment. "Okay, that's fair," he acquiesces eventually, and throws his hands over his head like he washes them of everything that's going on here. He is grinning as he does it though, so Dean feels perfectly okay with shoving him out of the way so he can take a closer look at Cas.

"Well?" he asks, gruffly. "You feeling okay? Not explodey or anything, right?"

Castiel nods. "I am fine, Dean."

Sam watches the two of them carefully. "So, just one more, right?" he pipes up, when Dean is looking Cas over from head to toe. Apparently Dean is fine with obeying the angel when he tells them to jump off a mountaintop, but when it comes to whether or not Cas is injured or not Dean doesn't believe a word he says. That gash that had opened up across his chest seems to be gone now though, the only evidence that it had existed at all being the fact that Cas's shirt is slashed open and he can see a sliver of skin underneath, smooth and unmarked.

"Yes," Cas answers Sam in the meantime, as he grudgingly submits to Dean's fussing. "Once my grace is complete, I should have sufficient power to defeat Raphael and take over the rule of Heaven without causing any more bloodshed amongst my brothers."

Dean isn't usually the kind of guy who quibbles—that's Sam's job— but part of him kind of stops short at the change from '_defeat__ Raphael __to __save __the __world__'_ to '_take __over __the __rule __of __Heaven_.' Mini-Cas doesn't seem to like the idea at all either, if the fact that it can barely manage a passable firefly impression is anything to go by.

Dean thinks maybe he should say something, but before he can, Cas's eyes flash and he reaches out to tap both brothers on the forehead.

The ground falls away from them despite Dean's sputtered protests.

* * *

They find themselves transported back to the visitor's cabin just in time for Green to poke his head in, looking concerned and vaguely suspicious at the outsiders as he reports that there were explosions of light at the top of the mountain just now, and that they're gathering a posse to go investigate. "Likely that it was just some stray bolts of lightning, but best to be safe and make sure no fires have broken out or anything," he says in a placating sort of way as he takes in the strange glow to Castiel's skin and the fact that Sam and Dean are still dressed for outside. The brothers manage to feign innocence well enough; Sam even musters up that concerned sympathy face of his, the one that makes people think that he's trying out for Miss America or something, and that all he wants is world peace and to stop hunger and disease so that everyone can adopt an abandoned kitten.

Green seems to fall for it, wishes them all a good night, and closes the door behind him, though not before locking it from the outside, for the guests' safety in case something really is amiss.

Dean bristles at that again, because if there might be _fires __in __the __woods __from__ lightning,_ clearly locking people in their rooms is the worst idea ever, but whatever. It's not like the lock isn't something either he or Sam can pick in their sleep, and when push comes to shove, Cas has the keys to the universe or whatever. It's still a douchy thing to do though.

Sam seems to think so too, but just shrugs to himself and flops down onto one of the cots. "Well, what now?" Dean demands after a moment of silence in which Castiel settles in a corner and kind of stares vacantly at nothing in particular. He's still a little flushed from the heat of the grace shard crashing into him, pink across the cheeks and his throat and along the knuckles of his hands from where Dean can see. He looks glowy, for lack of a better word, in a heady, slightly feverish way. The tear in his shirt has been magically fixed.

"I will need to settle, Dean," Castiel answers him after an unblinking moment. "It should not take long to fully incorporate the additional grace."

"Swell," Dean answers, and goes to plop down on the other cot. He eyes Cas one more time (the angel is still doing his best to reenact that time he'd been turned into an action figure apparently) before he rolls onto his back, pulls at the black chord around his neck, and looks at mini-Cas speculatively. "Hey," he murmurs to the tiny ball huddled at the very bottom of the vial, "c'mon, we were doing so well yesterday."

The grace gives a curious stutter, kind of weak and distant, but it's definitely still there. Dean takes some comfort in that, and spends the next few hours chatting it up before Sam throws a flat, grass-stuffed pillow thing at his head and tells him to shut up.

Dean keeps the flat grass-stuffed pillow thing so Sam doesn't have one anymore, stacks it on top of his own to make a slightly less flat, grass-stuffed pillow thing, and goes to sleep.


	12. Chapter 11

**Eleven **

This time around, Cas ends up only needing about eight hours to fully recover from the grace burn or whatever it is he gets after eating all that spicy archangel seasoning. As such, the three of them manage to sneak out of the visitor's cabin before most of the members of the commune—who apparently hadn't found anything at the top of the mountain, not even two random dead bodies or the silhouette of wings burned into the dirt— start to wake. Some are already up and about in order to begin preparing their evil vegetarian breakfasts or whatever, but they're too busy working to keep a particular eye out for Winchesters trying to sneak out of the visitor's cabin and back out to where they parked the Impala. Dean notes with a certain degree of smugness, that some of the members look like they have no clue what they're doing here suddenly, like they're coming down from one hell of an acid trip and have no idea what they'd spent the last night (or months or years) doing. But then again, some of the members look exactly the same as they had the other day, peaceful and unconcerned under the power of Gabriel's obedience. That knowledge quickly quells any sense of satisfaction Dean might have gleaned from reclaiming Green's power source.

Free will is a difficult thing, he supposes.

They manage to slip into the Impala during breakfast preparations without anyone noticing or missing them and end up stopping at the first roadside diner Dean sees for a glorious, glorious bacon-and-cheese filled breakfast. They linger for about an hour while Dean eats everything he can get his hands on and Sam breaks out the iDouchepad again to propose several possible leads regarding where he thinks the last shard is. Sam manages to lay out his top two most likely suspects before Cas gets this impatient little look on his face as he picks disinterestedly at the blueberry pancakes, sausage, and hash browns Dean ordered for him even though everyone's pretty sure the angel no longer needs to eat.

"Something the matter, Cas?" Dean asks when he can't take the sulking anymore, mostly because it is interfering with his syrupy bacon love affair of the morning.

"Hayyel and Hael's deaths will be noticed by Heaven soon. Raphael will send more formidable members of his troops to preclude me from getting the final shard of grace if he does not come himself. We should not waste time and go directly to the next piece."

Dean snorts. "Well sorry, but some of us still have to eat. Especially after the yesterday's entire menu being fuzzy and green. I think they tried to feed us moss, dude."

Castiel sighs and pushes his plate of mostly uneaten breakfast goods towards Dean and glares in that mighty-smitey way he used to glare at Dean with back when they were first getting to know each other and Cas was under the impression Dean was an errand boy.

Just to prove he isn't, he picks up his last piece of bacon and savors it. There is extra slow chewing and vaguely pornographic noises. Enough that Sam makes a face or utter reproach and Cas hunches more forward in his seat while staring at Dean's bacon like he would like to will it out of existence.

"Very mature, Dean," Sam says once Dean is done and licking grease and maple syrup off of his fingertips.

Castiel's response is to wordlessly reach out and tap both of their foreheads.

Before the world drops out around him, Dean is pretty sure the bastard smirks at him.

* * *

When Dean opens his eyes again he finds himself at the gates of a military cemetery in Maryland; it's muggy and overcast and in the distance he can see a funeral in full procession taking place under the shade of an impossibly tall oak tree, complete with a weeping mother and a stoically mourning father at its head. On top of that lovely vision there is also a line of wailing sisters, sniffling brothers, solemn looking marines in their dress uniforms, and a gravelly-voiced preacher doing his best to keep a handle on it all and lead his flock through their grief. All in all, it's exactly the sort of thing Dean wants to see after however hundreds or thousands of miles of angel transport have _already_ made him sick to his stomach. Right after breakfast. He fights back the reflex to vomit, mostly because it would probably land all over Sam, and a little because it would kind of be an insult to not only the solemnity of the funeral going on a little ways away, but also to the delicious bacon he had just ingested.

"What the hell, Cas?" Dean hisses under his breath when he can find words again, glaring at the angel as he braces himself on the edge of the open gate and trying to shake the nausea off.

"Now that I am nearing completion, it was much easier to locate the last shard," he says, like that explains anything. Which it obviously doesn't. Dean is beginning to wonder if each step forward they take is actually a giant honking step backwards in Cas's emotional development or something. "It is somewhere here."

Sam is already looking on curiously though, so clearly Dean is alone in this.

On the other hand, Mini-Cas gives a little stutter of support against his chest, and Dean looks down at it and thinks that maybe not _totally_ alone. That's kind of nice.

"So…it's here? Love?" Sam asks after a beat, looking skeptical. "In a cemetery."

"Yeah, kind of morbid, don't you think?" Dean agrees as he watches the marines line up and fire their guns up into the overcast morning sky. Despite the pops of the reports, Dean can still hear the poor bastard's mother sobbing above it all, inconsolable as her remaining children hold her up through the ordeal.

"It is an unconventional location, perhaps, but not entirely unexpected," Castiel answers in the meantime, gazing in that unperturbed manner of his at the ceremony. "For angels, love is reserved solely for our Father and for our brothers and sisters, our garrisons. It is not so different in a place like this; soldiers serve their country in your human wars, they die for the principles of their homelands and for the other members of their unit. They kill for those things as well. There can be no greater profession of love than the sacrifice of one's life."

Dean's eyes flit sideways to first Sam and then the angel, and he figures that kind of makes sense, but in a weirdly depressing way. "Okay so what, it's in the ground? It's in the bodies?" He really hopes it's not in the bodies.

"I will have to get closer to see," Castiel admits, and starts to walk through the gates like there _isn__'__t_ a funeral for a dead marine currently underway. Luckily for their socially retarded angel Dean is here, and he manages to grab at the back of Cas's coat before he can walk right up the path and interrupt like a douche.

"Woah, woah, woah," Dean grinds out, yanking the trench until Cas frowns and stops. "Have a little respect, man. There's a funeral going on. People are _in __mourning_."

Cas blinks at him. "They have no need to mourn, Dean," he says matter-of-factly, turning his gaze back on the huddled masses of grief on the grass. It's like he's looking at them but not; Dean recognizes the expression on Cas's face as one where he sees everything but none of the stuff that really matters at the same time. Angel-vision, or something. The last time he'd used it he'd ended up _not_ getting laid in a _whore __house_ so that says a lot about how well it works out for Cas. "The marine they are burying has been rewarded for his bravery and sacrifice in Heaven so there is no cause to be sad for his death."

"Dude, this isn't for _him,_" he points out. Then backtracks a little because that's not _exactly_ swhat he means. "Well, in a way it is for him, but I mean, it's so the people who are left behind have a little closure, Cas. You can't just storm up there in the middle of that and start poking around for grace." His eyes search Cas's as he says this, hoping for some sort of understanding.

It doesn't come right away, but then Cas just looks him over once and must see how adamant Dean is about this, because eventually, he takes a step backwards and nods. They don't break eye contact though, and it isn't until Sam gives a sort of half-cough, half-groan noise that they stop.

"Uh, that's not anyone you know, right Cas?" Sam intones gesturing with his chin towards a young man in a black suit not unlike the ones Raphael's legions wear when on Earth. The man has his head lowered slightly and approaches the ceremony determinedly but respectfully.

Castiel shakes his head. "That is not an angel or a demon," he says decisively, after a minute. "I do not know him."

But apparently the mother of the deceased does, because the minute she lays eyes on him that fainting weeping old woman thing is out the window and she's springing up and screaming at the dude like she needs to be exorcised. Dean can't make out the exact words she's using, but he can see the way the guy—who is apparently also a _marine__—_shrinks in on himself when the woman starts pointing and shouting at him.

"Estranged brother?" Sam posits out loud, squinting at the scene as people try to hold the incensed old woman back.

"I'm guessing a member of his unit?" Dean throws in there, mostly because he has a sinking feeling in his gut that the guy that's getting buried died so this other dude wouldn't have to.

Cas is doing his gazing-through-time-and-space thing again, and after a moment, says, "That man was a member of the deceased marine's unit," which makes Dean feel like Sherlock Holmes or something, at least up until Castiel adds, "he was also his lover."

Both Winchesters' eyebrows climb higher on their foreheads. "I thought that wasn't allowed," Sam says.

"It seems to have been a secret until the marine's death," Castiel confirms. "They hid it so they would be allowed to protect their country."

Well. Dean just feels depressed now.

Meanwhile, the marine's shrieking mother is still spitting and cursing at the poor guilt-ridden guy in the suit, and Castiel, helpful as ever, reports: "She is saying that it is his fault that her son is dead. It is because he drove her son to commit sin that God chose to punish him with death on the battlefield." Pause. "She is half right."

Sam and Dean both look at him incredulously. "What now?"

"She is correct to blame the lover for her son's death, but his dying on the battlefield was not punishment for his actions from Heaven. Her son chose to die in order to protect the person he loved. By dying, he saved his lover's life." Castiel frowns now, like he's been personally insulted or something. "For her to assume that her son was incapable of dying on the battlefield for no other reason than who he chooses to bed is something only humans would think to do. Heaven does not care enough about human wars or human sexual practices to interfere in either."

During the whole time the angel is speaking, Dean and Sam are sharing slightly more and more concerned looks, one, because Cas sounds kind of like robo-Cas, and two, because Dean is feeling dread pooling in the pit of his stomach instinctively and Sam is probably picking up on it from his brother's facial expressions. Mini-Cas doesn't seem to be too thrilled with what's going down either, but then again, mini-Cas hasn't been thrilled since it got plucked out of Cas and had to play second string to dead pieces of Gabriel in the angel's heart.

Then Castiel cements all the bad feelings he possibly can by adding, "The lover is thinking about how to kill himself tonight to atone for his actions. He will probably succeed in killing himself, but not in atoning."

"Dude that sucks," are the first words Dean has to say about that, as he watches the poor guy finish getting his lumps from his dead boyfriend's mom and retreat pathetically back down the path, towards the parking lot and away from the ceremony. The guy passes by the gate the Winchesters are loitering at a few seconds later and pauses to give them a curious look, like he's considering telling them to beat it, but whatever he's going to say or do gets swallowed by his own misery and he turns away, shoves his hands into his pockets, and climbs into a beaten-up silver Civic without a backwards glance.

Sam's expression says he's so full of sympathy he might explode with it. "There has to be something we can do to help him," he says out loud, tacking something that is actually helpful onto to Dean's earlier thought. Dean is inclined to agree.

Castiel's brow furrows. "The final shard is close at hand," he reminds them. "We cannot afford to be distracted by other matters."

Dean feels mini-Cas give a twinge of discontent against his chest and he claps a reassuring hand around it while turning to look at Cas. "Dude, we have to hold off for now anyway; it's broad daylight."

"Why is that a concern?" Castiel persists. "If we are asked what we are doing, we can simply say we are searching for the remains of my deceased relative. It is the truth."

"It's a concern," Dean insists, "because it's nearly freaking Memorial Day and this is a military cemetery in Maryland and I'm pretty sure it's going to draw attention—and probably pissed off servicemen— if the three of us walk around digging up graves of fallen heroes in broad daylight," Dean snaps.

Castiel looks confounded. "You want to wait until after dark."

"Yes," Dean confirms. "Which is still plenty of time from now, which means Sammy can go do some research, maybe figure out where in this enormous cemetery we're supposed to be looking in the first place. That'll give me plenty of time to convince some poor schmuck not to kill himself for no good reason. Everyone wins."

"Uh, plus, people are staring at us right now, so we should probably leave. At least until the next guard shift change," Sam chimes in right on time, with a sideways glance at some guys in security uniforms approaching the three of them as they stand like creepers at the gate, staring at the headstones and the funeral still in progress.

"Right. Okay. Walk," Dean tells Cas pointedly, before spinning the angel around and marching him away from the cemetery. Sam trots after them and they manage to make the light and cross to the other side before the groundskeepers or whatever can get a good look at their devilishly handsome profiles.

Castiel still looks dissatisfied with the turn of events. "I don't understand why saving one individual life matters so much when the entire balance of Heaven and Earth is at risk and we are so close to saving it," he points out, and Dean looks up into the angel's slightly irate, mostly bewildered countenance as they make their way to safety. It's not exactly encouraging.

"Yeah I'm starting to get that you actually don't," Dean grits out darkly. He's also beginning to get what Crowley had meant earlier when he said they were going to have to wipe the entire angelic hard drive before installing the new OS. There's clearly some data that's getting lost in the transfer, because just a few weeks ago, Dean is 100% certain the angel in front of him had very different views on the importance of _one__ individual__ life_.

Let it be known that this is exactly why Dean is against upgrading his stuff. People just shouldn't mess with classics.

At that, Mini-Cas gives a little trill of agreement that is supposed to be comforting. It is.

But only a little.

* * *

Sam supposes the fact that Dean is actually researching something this time around is good. It's a step up from chatting about this week's _Dr. __Sexy_ episode with Castiel's former grace, anyway. The younger Winchester pauses in his perusal of the _very __long __list_ of dead servicemen and women's names that currently reside at Cheltenham as he tries to figure out which one of the many might have a particular tie to an archangel's grace. So far he's decided it's virtually impossible to tell; people who sign up to die on foreign soil out of love for country (if not always that country's policies) are kind of hard to rank into _more_ and _less_ worthy of attracting divine attention. Plus it makes Sam feel like an asshole just for the fact that he's trying.

Dean, in the meantime, is finding out more about their dead marine and his suicidal boyfriend, and Sam is just on the verge of suspicious in terms of the fervor Dean is approaching the whole thing with, how he's putting all the helpless frustration he might be feeling at Cas's upgrades into action and using it to fuel this strange personal quest to save one guy they got a glimpse of for all of five minutes earlier in the morning.

It's pretty much the textbook Winchester-way of sublimating from what Sam knows of it. Mom is dead? Use all that murderous rage and vengeful hatred to wipe out supernatural beings that are hurting other innocent people. Your brother's in Hell? Continue to travel the country using the evil powers you have that got your brother killed in the first place to keep other people from ending up like your family did. Your personal angel possibly regressing to a heartless killing machine who only has the big picture in mind? Save a gay guy.

It all makes perfect psychoanalytic sense or something, in the microcosm of their lives.

"Dude was a First Sergeant in the marines, Sammy," Dean reports as if on cue, leaning back triumphantly from the laptop and whistling appreciatively once he successfully digs up the bone he's been searching for.

"The uh, the dead guy?" Sam asks, politely. If this is the personal mission his brother needs to take on in order to stay sane(ish) or whatever, he'll play ball. Sam can multitask like that, even as he thinks getting the shard is still number one on the priority list, mostly because he would like for the world to not end and for the doors of purgatory to stay closed. He also wants Dean not to have a complete freak out too, though, so. Here they are.

"No, the survivor. First Sergeant Ross Sweet, thirty one. Formally resigned after a mission in Columbia went south and Corporal Ed Rogers had to jump on a grenade during a firefight with a group of rebels so that Sweet and the rest of their team could get airlifted out. Kid was barely your age, Sammy."

Sam winces. Dean just shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing in that severe way he does whenever he imagines anyone Sam's age biting the dust. "That fucking sucks, man," he mutters to himself absently, and then plays around on the keyboard some more, possibly hitting the keys a little bit harder than absolutely necessary. After a minute or so of this, wherein Sam debates the merits of telling his brother to take it easy for the sake of the laptop, Dean's eyes light up with triumph. "I got an address," he declares, and smirking, looks challengingly at Sam. "What about you?"

Sam knows that the sudden upturn in competitive spirit is also an important part of the sublimation process, but that doesn't make it any less annoying. "Dean, this is going to take hours," he says plainly, which makes Cas go all head-tilty and frowny in the corner, where he's apparently settled to examine his new wings or whatever. That had been a fun conversation earlier. Sam suspects the actual thought of his angel developing new and strange (if invisible) appendages during this strange transformation is sending Dean back to that whole Kafka thing again, or possibly towards _Alien_, like he expects a new and hostile being to erupt out of Cas's chest and eat their faces at any second now.

"We do not have hours," Castiel says abruptly and stands, making the act somehow look like an epic unfolding of heavenly bodies. It probably is, you know, in the invisible way. Sam notices that Dean keeps his eyes resolutely glued to the laptop screen as he ostensibly gets driving directions from their hotel to First Sergeant Sweet's house.

"Let's just handle this first, and then we'll go back to the cemetery," Sam suggests, glancing at his watch. It's late afternoon now, which probably means the cemetery will be closing soon, but it would probably still behoove them to wait until cover of darkness.

Cas has that ruffled bird look on his face that he gets sometimes, but Dean is ignoring everything in Cas's general corner of the room as he writes down the exits he'll have to take off the freeway to get to the First Sergeant's home.

Eventually, the ruffled bird pose settles more into contemplative grumpy bear stance, and right when Dean stands up, Cas declares, "I must return to the cemetery. Waiting will only give Raphael or Crowley the chance to find us."

Dean finally looks at the angel while Sam ducks over his iPad; it suddenly feels a lot like what Sam always imagined watching your parents fight would be like.

"This will only take a couple of hours, tops," Dean bites out. "Chill."

"It is fine if you do not wish to accompany me," Castiel bites back. "But I cannot _chill_ until our primary objective is taken care of."

Dean sets his jaw and squares his shoulders in that way Sam knows Dean does when he knows he's picking a big fight where he expects to be punched a lot but can't back down from because it's unmanly or something. "Fine. Do what you gotta do."

Castiel glowers back for a second, like he's about to say something scathing and take Dean up on that offer of punching him. To Sam's (slight) relief, the angel only hesitates for a moment before he ends up disappearing in whoosh of air instead.

Dean deflates like that whoosh of air is officially letting the wind out of his sails. "Well okay then," he says to himself, and turns to grab the keys to the Impala off his desk.

Sam eyes him carefully. "You sure you don't want to go after him?" he posits after a breath. "I mean, I can go follow up on Sweet myself."

Dean shakes his head and kind of looks like someone punched him in the gut anyway. "It's fine. If Cas thinks he can handle it himself, then let him," he grumbles, clearly forgetting that that's the kind of thinking that pretty much got them here in the first place.

"Dean," Sam starts, but get cut off by a quelling glare from his brother.

"Don't say it, Sam," Dean warns, voice coming from somewhere low enough in his throat that Sam is pretty sure only animals are can use without causing permanent damage. "If we leave now we can be at Sweet's house in an hour." That said, he turns and heads to the door, walking like he's in the wild, wild west again and each step is leading to some sort of showdown on Main Street at high noon.

Sam swallows. "Right." He tucks his iPad under his arm and scrambles out after his brother.

* * *

Dean remembers how much he hates Maryland freeways exactly an hour and ten minutes into their drive, mostly because it is rush hour at the end of the day when everyone is heading home, probably from work on the hill or something, and that inevitably means that Google Maps is a lying whore about how long it takes to get anywhere. Dean can't even entertain the thought of speeding or weaving through the cars driving so slowly he might _die_ just because there are so many effing government plates on the road around them that he's afraid to even look at someone the wrong way and get some FBI agent curious enough to start causing them (more) problems. So they clip along at a miserable 45mph on the I-495 N for way longer than he'd planned while Sam fidgets awkwardly in the seat next to him, like he has all these _things_to say. Dean pointedly ignores his brother and glares at the road ahead. The _sun_ is setting faster than they're moving and he's going to be seriously pissed off if Sweet kills himself while he and Sam are stuck in _traffic_.

_It __sure __would__ have__ been __nice__ to __have __some __angel__ transport_, part of him thinks mutinously. But Cas has fucked off back to Cheltenham in search of the final piece that will complete his douche-transformation sequence or something, and Dean kind of hates himself for not being more adamant about screwing this whole stupid plan the minute he saw signs of Gabriel's grace fucking with Cas's programming.

It isn't until Sam says, "Dude, breathe," to him that he realizes he's white knuckling the steering wheel and making serial killer faces at the road. It's a wonder they haven't gotten pulled over for looking like domestic terrorists or something already.

"Sorry," Dean mutters, and eases up a little.

"You want to talk about it?" Sam poses cautiously after a breath or two, when they finally get to exit onto the 295 N. It means they're almost there, and that Dean definitely doesn't want to talk about it.

"No," he grinds out.

"I kind of want to talk about it," Sam offers next. "So it's fine if you could just listen."

"Sam."

"No, Dean. I'm just…curious. Uh…why is this so important all of a sudden? I mean, logically, I can see why Cas is right…"

Dean gives his brother an incredulous look and wonders if he managed to lose his soul again in the last two days or something.

"Not that I necessarily agree," Sam hastily adds, when he reads Dean's expression correctly. "I just…this isn't exactly our sort of business," he amends.

"Saving people is totally our business."

"Yeah, Dean. But from monsters, not suicide."

Dean hunkers down in his seat. "Yeah well, maybe if he kills himself like this he'll become an angry ghost ten years down or something. I'm just saving us the trouble of having to come back." It is lame reasoning and he knows it, but he's just going to go with that for the time being, especially since he has to concentrate now that they're just about in the suburbs of Baltimore and he'll need to pay careful attention to all the tiny street names he'll need to pass in order to find Sweet's house.

"Okay, I guess that's one theory," Sam answers, sounding irritatingly calm about the whole thing. Then adds, "I kind of have a theory too."

"Well save it for the crying and hugging session afterwards, Sammy, we're almost there," Dean says, feeling relieved as he exits the freeway and makes a left off the ramp. From there it's a quarter mile on ridiculously named street roads through rustic east coast suburbia, several twists and turns on little avenues that Dean swears aren't big enough to be considered two way streets, and an illegal U-turn or two when Dean confuses Maplewood Drive for Maple Leaf Street before they find themselves in front of a small, single-level brick home at the end of a cul-de-sac with a mailbox out front that, when Sam squints in the now prevalent darkness, actually says "Sweet" across the side of it, all convenient like. There's a light on that Sam can see through the closed curtains of the house's bay windows and the beat up silver Civic they'd seen the First Sergeant driving earlier that morning confirms that he's home. Of course, it doesn't say anything about whether he's still alive or not. Or if he's even still contemplating suicide. For all they know he's heating up dinner and settling down to watch the conference finals of the NBA playoffs.

"Freaking finally," Dean declares once he too, observes that Sweet is home. He puts the car in park. They sit in the dark for about five minutes.

Sam looks at him. "So uh, now what?"

Dean blinks. "We keep him from killing himself, obviously."

Sam is a good brother most of the time, but sometimes his face does stupid things that makes Dean self-conscious. This is kind of one of those moments.

"Seriously?" Sam demands. "Are we just going to knock on his door and ask him about whether or not he actually plans to kill himself tonight? Or are we just going to lurk around the windows and hope his neighbors don't catch us while we do surveillance on him?"

"I was thinking option two, actually," Dean shoots back, completely defensively, and he must sound pretty pathetic when he does it because Sam's features soften a little.

"Dean," he says, voice gentler now, "Cas will be fine. Stop freaking out."

Dean balks, because he'd rather have Sam yelling and fighting with logic against him than take that weird, pitying tone he's using right now. "Yeah, well. He's off to get the last chunk of Gabriel so he can complete his transformation into Captain Douchebag. Just because I don't want to be one of the douche-a-teers doesn't mean I'm freaking out about it, man."

"Dean."

"Sam."

Sam gives him this look that is mostly a threat about how he's going to talk every inch of this out—in monologue form if he has to— if Dean insists on kicking and screaming and fighting him the entire way. Which Dean will, and it will probably get the cops called on their asses when the neighbors notice all the strange punching and yelling coming from the mysterious black muscle car parked at the end of their street.

Luckily for them both, a shadow in the bay window catches their attention before any of that can happen.

* * *

Despite its size and the constant foot traffic about, it doesn't take long for Castiel to search most of the cemetery, the angel keeping to dark corners and fading in and out of shadows as the sun sets. It is with some frustration that he realizes he cannot yet manipulate the minds of the groundskeepers or any of the other humans he accidentally runs across into not seeing him at all. They ask him if he is here to see a loved one or to pay his respects and he nods solemnly and says, "This is my older brother's final resting place," without having to lie about it. They sympathize with him and some of them even tell him the stories of their loved ones, those who died in action, those who died after action, those who were killed or who got sick or who just couldn't take it anymore after what they had seen, after they had taken lives and seen the lives of friends and brothers lost in front of them.

Castiel knows—for the most part— the most basic appropriate noises and expressions of sympathy to make even as he does not feel much of anything when he hears these tales; a year ago he would have understood better he realizes, but for the moment his only desire is to locate the shard and to draw it out and into himself, and when he realizes the strangers with their stories and their broken hearts are not enough to attract a fraction of archangel grace, he wordlessly moves on.

A tinny, distant part of himself thinks that there is perhaps something wrong with that, that before he loved all of his Father's creations and looked upon them with care and wonder. Then his world had narrowed to a point, to Dean, and as he had fallen, that had been enough. Now he feels distant from all of that, like the memories of events he _knows_ happened, that he experienced himself, are no more than images that flicker across his mind, as if he had watched them instead of lived them. Logically, he supposes that the grace flickering and incomplete inside of him _had_ only watched those events for the most part; the grace inside him now does not have the experiences that the grace he had ripped from himself contains, and the closer he gets to collecting all the shards of this one, the farther away he draws from the knowledge inside his first.

In truth, all this new grace wishes for is to be complete now, now that he is so close. It had not been so bad before, with the first few pieces. They had seemed small then, and he thinks he had been able to remember and to sympathize and to feel because those first few pieces had not been strong enough to overcome the parts of him that knew, that had experienced and fought with Dean and protected Dean and loved Dean. But now that does not seem to be the case; now an archangel's grace is nearly completed within him and it is bigger than anything he has ever known— bigger and more important— and nothing seems as pressing in the wake of that than completion. The memories and the sensations are present but far away and badly rendered; he supposes those are the remnants of his living grace, the one that he had given Dean solely in the hopes that it could be useful to the human now that it had become useless to him. He remembers that he had hoped, through the agony of falling, that Dean could use that tiny, obsolete grace to protect himself with or to barter for aid with, or even just to light his way if he found himself lost and alone, stumbling in the dark of some unknown place.

In either case, it is a nuisance that can be dealt with later. For now he concentrates on finding the love shard, the final piece to end this war, as he wanders past the base of the large oak tree that the lover of the marine Dean is so desperately trying to save is now buried beneath. He stands at its base for a moment, looks out in all directions, and calls out to the grace—to the love—that is still missing from him, that is capable of making him whole again.

God's love had been the final jewel laid in the crown of each angel as they had been made, the lynchpin that was meant to tie together all other pieces, that drove truth and wrath and mercy and devotion and faith and obedience like fuel. It is the greatest piece of all angels, of archangels especially, and Castiel cannot understand why he cannot find it here, in this finite, human space. He does not understand why, when he is so close, it does not answer his summons. He knows it is here, can sense its residual pulse of life through the greenness of the grass, the crispness of the air, and the way the flowers given in tribute here all seem to live a little longer than they should despite the heat. Love's influence stretches all through the confines of these grounds and yet when he stands here, he cannot locate the center from which all these things stem.

The cemetery closes for the night as Castiel continues his search. The night watchmen begin their patrols, leaving the angel who carefully lurks around the hulk of the large tree, avoiding them in the same way the grace shard seems to be avoiding him.

Castiel wonders if perhaps he should have forced Dean to come with him; Dean has been able thus far to loosen and free all the pieces of grace he could not capture on his own. Dean had found him faith and regained him obedience, had unleashed wrath and showed him mercy. Dean had demanded truth and allowed him devotion, had been a part—has always been a part— of how Castiel has grown. He is not here now, and with Dean's absence, the angel finds that love will not come to him.

But then again, it is likely that even if Dean were here, love would still not come. Castiel is not certain of the level of Dean's regard for him, whether it would be enough to dislodge the final shard of Gabriel's grace from this place where countless of humans have died for love. He does not know if, right now, he remembers love for Dean as he had felt it when he had ripped his grace from himself. He recalls in his memories that there had been love then, fierce and determined and resigned all at once. He sighs and rests an absent hand on the trunk of the tree he stands in the shadows of and wonders if this is some kind of punishment from his Father, that he should quest to this point only to discover that everything he has gained so far is exactly what precludes him from the parts of himself that are required to finish this mission.

It is while he contemplates these things— standing alone and frustrated in the dark of a lonely soldier's cemetery—when Raphael finds him.

* * *

The silhouette of a man trying to asphyxiate himself on his own ceiling fan in front of his suburban home's charming bay windows is what prompts Dean and Sam to their feet and out of the car mid-argument, what has them kicking down the front door and rushing into a stranger's living room without formally discussing a plan or a course of action. It ends up working out though, because by the time they make it inside, First Sergeant Sweet is slowly choking from the knotted leather belt around his neck. There's a note at his feet and an overturned stool on the ground and a look in his eye that Dean knows means business. But that look is probably on Dean's face and on Sam's face too, because before the guy can blink, Sam is wordlessly grabbing Sweet's legs and holding him aloft, taking pressure off of his throat while Dean grabs the upturned stool that the Sergeant had used to climb up there in the first place, pulling the demon killing knife from his boot in one smooth motion and sawing through the leather like it's a personal enemy of his or something.

The tension around Sweet's throat snaps just like that and Sam has his arms full of gasping, red-faced marine; luckily Sam is somehow _still_ bigger than everyone else in the world and manages to manhandle Sweet back to the ground without falling himself as the former soldier gasps and wheezes in disbelief at his saviors.

"You're okay," Sam says, trying to sound soothing as his giant hulk hovers above the other man, "You're okay, just take it easy."

"I'm not okay!" Sweet rasps a moment later, hand bracing his aching throat as he glares at Sam. "Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"

"Saving your life, buddy," Dean snipes back, feeling a fresh wave of hot anger course over him at the marine's belligerent, accusatory tone.

"We're…friends," Sam adds, all friendly-like.

Sweet scoffs. "If you were my friends," he grounds out, voice sounding like he'd swallowed glass, "you'd leave me the hell alone."

"We didn't say we were _your_ friends," Dean growls in response.

Sweet stares in confusion for a moment, before some sort of light goes on upstairs. "You're… you're Ed's friends?" he breathes slowly.

"Uh, something like that," Sam answers vaguely. "Do you need water or something?"

Sweet just shakes his head while Dean continues to glare. Sam gives him this _not__ helping_ look.

"No, no water," Sweet mutters, and shakily climbs to his feet. "How did you find me?" he asks instead. "Why?"

"To stop you from doing something monumentally stupid, obviously," Dean answers flatly, no hint of sympathy in his voice now that the soldier is out of harm's way.

Sweet bristles right back. "What's stupid about it?" he demands. "Why shouldn't I kill myself? It's my fault. Everything was my fault!"

Sam is infinitely more gentle than Dean could ever be as he steps in, hands raised in a placating sort of way. "You can't believe Ed thinks that, Sergeant," he says. "You can't believe he's the kind of person who would blame you for what happened. It was out of your hands."

"It wasn't!" Sweet argues hotly, and Dean winces a little when he looks at him because watching a strange man cry is awkward at best, no matter how angry or indignant he may be at the moment. "I could have ended it," Sweet insists, voice still hoarse. "I could have kept him from getting rejected by his family, hated by his friends, shunned by his brothers in arms."

Dean doesn't look him in the eye anymore, training his gaze at the ground. "Yeah well, it's a two way street buddy. If it was so bad, he could have stopped it himself. Walked away."

"It must have been worth it to him if he stayed on," Sam adds, more gently.

Sweet barks in humorless laughter. "You knew Ed. Too damn loyal to walk away from anything, even if he knew it was bad for him. From us, from the grenade that killed him. Same thing. He wasted his life on me. Isn't it only fair I do the same for him?"

It's at that point that Dean kind of hits him. By kind of, he means open-fisted, across the jaw, and without even knowing he's doing it until after it's done.

Sam stares at him in incredulous horror. Sam probably thinks you shouldn't slap the guy who attempted to kill himself across the face so soon after the incident.

Dean doesn't really care though, because now he's pissed. "You listen to me, you whiny little assface," he says, finger pointed right at the bewildered marine's face. "If someone _dies_ for you, that's not nothing. It's not a waste, it's not something you do for someone else out of _pity_. It's not something you decide to do for fun, or because you feel bad for someone, or because it's easy."

Sweet opens his mouth, lips curling back in an angry grimace. "You don't underst…"

Dean hits him again.

"I said _listen_ to me," Dean growls, low and dangerous, his best impression of Cas at his smiting best. "Dude _jumped __on __a __grenade_ for you. So you could live. That's not something you do for just anyone. Dying's a big damn deal. And it's fucking _disrespectful_ of you to think that killing yourself is the way you pay a guy back after what he gave up for you. You can't let it mean nothing. Not after all that."

Both Sam and Sweet are looking at him incredulously now; Sam probably because he didn't expect words to accompany Dean's random bursts of violence and Sweet because he probably didn't expect Dean to stop hitting him. It doesn't matter.

Dean lowers his voice. "Trust me, man," he says to Sweet, gentler now, "I know. Someone loves you enough to do all that for you, the last thing you should be doing is the exact opposite of what they were trying to prevent."

Dean runs a tired hand over his face after that statement, lets his palm rest—overly warm and sweaty— over his eyes. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the in and out of their breathing, Dean's heavier than the rest as his mind slowly catches up with his mouth, as images of Castiel beating the shit out of him in an alley suddenly come unbidden to his mind, the falling angel's tired voice screaming, "_I__ did __this__— __all __of __this__— __for__ you __and__ this __is __how__ you __repay __me?__"_

It's late—years too late— and maybe there's far too little he can do to make up for it now, but at the very least, he thinks he gets it now, without meaning to at all.

He thinks—and call him crazy for making such a huge assumption— but he suddenly gets _everything_ now. What it had meant for him to run away to say yes to Michael back during the apocalypse, what it had meant for Cas to try and shoulder the burden of a war in Heaven _alone_ to let Dean have the peace they'd all thought he'd wanted. What it still means now, when Cas is willing to erase all the parts of himself that make him _Cas_ and shove archangel bits inside of him to try and keep this world intact, even if it means he gets lost along the wayside for Dean _again_.

Sam must see it when his shoulders tense marginally, must hear his sharp intake of air. "Dean?" he offers a little bit disbelievingly, holding a hand up in front of his face for whatever reason. His voice is laced with concern, with apprehension.

Dean's first reaction is to say, out loud, "Shit."

Because Cas has always been willing to die for Dean without a moment's hesitation. Has always held Dean's life in higher regard than his own, has always jumped on the proverbial grenade with a smile as long as it gave the Winchesters even the smallest advantage. And if all that's a sign of some goddamned love, then Dean's fucking angel has it in spades. Cas _loves __the __shit __out __of __him._

And there's a cliff at the top of a mountain in Virginia and a vet's office in a pet-crazy town in Iowa that both say Dean's answer to those feelings is the last thing he'd ever expected.

Clearly, this is just how they roll.

And so, after what feels like a very long time just concentrating on _breathing_, Dean finally lowers his hand. Opens his eyes.

And that's when he notices that Sam's hand is up in front of his face in order to shield his eyes from the explosion of light that's suddenly overtaken the entire room, bright and hot, like looking directly in the sun.

It's coming from the vial around Dean's neck.

"Dean?" Sam asks, clearly concerned. "Why is it doing that?"

Dean looks down at mini-Cas, awed and slightly disbelieving as he pulls on the black cord until the vial is out from under his shirt and in his hands, making Sam and Sweet both wince and turn away slightly, like they can't quite take the heat.

Dean stares right at it, feeling like he can't look away. He doesn't want to look away. Cas's grace has somehow gone from a sad, dimly glowing marble sitting at the bottom of the vial to a swirling galaxy of life, a miniature sun pressed from one wall of the container to the other and looking like it might explode beyond its confines at any second. In that moment, it looks even more brilliant—more beautiful— to Dean than it ever had, even when Cas had first ripped it out and Balthazar had presented it to him like it was the most important thing in the universe.

Maybe it is.

"I gotta go, Sam," Dean says after an awed moment of just _looking_at that part of Cas, finally managing to tear his eyes away to turn to his brother instead, feeling a stutter in his chest that is not unlike getting the wind knocked out of him, only not in a bad way. "Can you handle this?" He gestures to a gaping Sweet, almost as an afterthought.

"What? Dean, what's going on?" Sam demands again, and takes a step towards him, looking at the mutant vial of grace pulsing against his brother's chest like a heartbeat and obviously worried that it's going to explode at any second now and eat them all in the blast.

Dean wants to tell him not to be scared of it, that it's just _Cas,_ and Cas has never been scary, not even at his angelic dickish-ness _worst_. "I gotta stop Cas," is what Dean says out loud instead, like that explains anything (it doesn't), and on Sam's extreme bitchface that says it doesn't, adds— without thought or preamble or hesitation (which, in retrospect, he will later realize says more about how he feels than anything)—" I love him."

And he doesn't want Cas to go on like he has been since they started this stupid quest. Despite all the things Dean's never known he wanted with regards to the angel, that, at the very least, is something he _has_ always known.

He's _never __wanted __Cas __to __change._

So he'd better be willing to do whatever it takes to stop it. Even if it means falling on one of Heaven's goddamned grenades himself.

Sam's extreme bitchface goes to extreme _what, __how__ did __we __get __here,__is __this __a __joke,__am __I __being __pranked_ face when he hears Dean's unprompted declaration, which Dean would normally be more concerned about seeing upon confessing his big gay love for an angel to his brother, except right now, mini-Cas is basically warming a pretty bitching sunburn against his chest and Dean thinks that's a sign that the little dude is raring to go, maybe almost as much as he is.

But then Sam surprises him—and funny how Sam can always still do that, even after so many years living out of each other's pockets— when he blinks and nods and crosses his arms in the same way he used to when he was a little shithead at age seventeen and had been waiting for Dean's puny Neanderthal brain to catch up to wherever his freaky genius logic had gotten them to _ages __ago_ on the research front. "Yeah okay. That…makes sense," he says, like it's no big thing, like he's just put together a giant 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle together (that took Dean _years _to do) in that freakishly huge frontal lobe of his after all of five minutes. Then he gets all squinty-eyed—and Dean knows then that Sam will always be his freaky genius little shithead brother no matter how enormous and manly he gets— as he says, "So… I guess the power of love is all you really needed in the end, huh?" while pointing to the vial containing a suped-up mini-Cas.

"Never say that again," Dean answers him flatly— because he forgot to add that his freaky genius little shithead brother is also a giant mangirl—and then he's spinning around and running out of Sweet's busted down door, leaving Sam behind to deal with and a very confused former marine on the living room floor of a small one story house in an unassuming Baltimore suburb.

Dean drives 20 mph above the speed limit towards Cheltenham.

* * *

When Raphael appears at the foot of the fresh grave of Edward Rogers, he is holding a bloody, unconscious Balthazar by the throat in one hand and his archangel sword in the other. A part of Castiel, small and muddled, flares in distress at the sight of his brother in such pain, pain that he had never sought, that should only be Castiel's. But the majority of him simply gives a moment's pause to regard the gaping mess of grace and fire that Balthazar makes now, subjugated as he is by Raphael. This could very well mean his forces are destroyed, that even if he does complete this quest, he will have no soldiers which to command into battle.

"Castiel," Raphael greets, voice somehow no less large despite the change in size and gender of his vessel. As he speaks, flashes of lighting streak across the sky in accompaniment and thunder rolls in the distance. When Castiel looks up he can see hundreds of dark rain clouds gathering from nowhere at the archangel's presence, filling the air with the scent of ozone and a promise of a frightful storm. A chill wind sweeps through the quiet cemetery as the first fat drops of rain begin to fall.

Castiel does not feel any of it.

Raphael smirks and throws Balthazar's limp vessel at Castiel's feet. "There is your replacement general, abomination," the older angel informs Castiel distastefully. "See now what your blasphemous quest to rise above your station has wrought upon those who have loved you most. The blood of all our brothers who have fallen in this war is on your hands; it is your battles they needlessly fight, your strange ideals and disobedient whims that they die for. If only they could see you now, an affront to God."

Castiel's eyes narrow at his brother, at the sleek, beautiful, dangerous vessel he wears and at the sword glistening in his hand under flashes of impossibly close lightning. He is not as strong as Raphael now, even with the majority of Gabriel's grace at his command; Gabriel might have been much more vast an angel than Raphael, but Raphael is still an archangel. He is still whole.

The only way to survive this battle is to complete his grace. Raphael was never a match for a fully functional Gabriel.

And so Castiel calls out again, stretching the broken, incomplete edges of his grace outward, crying for completion, desperately hoping the shard will answer him, even as thunder roars and Raphael strikes, sword held high and proud and unyielding in his hand.

Castiel manages to block with his own and the force of the two blades colliding sends a shock wave through the cemetery, shaking earth and crumbling stones, uprooting plants and sending flower petals scattering to the winds.

Castiel is forced to retreat backwards to avoid a subsequent strike, again desperately calling to the final shard, begging that it make itself known to its master. He thinks of his Father and saving the world, thinks of Balthazar and Rachel and the countless others who fought at his side and gave their lives. There is love in there—the highest love of the angels in Heaven— and surely the shard of grace containing Gabriel's love must answer to that.

But it does not.

Raphael is the only one to answer Castiel; he smiles triumphantly when he hears those pleas, when he hears the resounding emptiness that ensues. "Your love for humanity is a dying candle, Castiel," he realizes, when he searches the other angel's grace more carefully. "The changes you have wrought upon yourself have perverted you. Do you find it ironic that the shards you so painstakingly gathered are now working against you to keep you from claiming the final piece? Do you see now that our Father's plans are ineffable?" Raphael's dark eyes are alight with righteous fire as the lightning dances in the air around them, as he faces Castiel with his sword held high, in full belief of his inevitable victory. "This world will burn, Castiel," he says, reaching out to touch his hand against the gnarled trunk of the tree they are fighting under. There is a flash of light when his hand comes in contact with the wood, a thrumming that Castiel recognizes in a heartbeat, that fills him with satisfaction at its presence but that continues to willfully disobey him.

The shard of love has embedded itself deep into the heart of this old tree, this monument that feeds off of the humans that lie here and that visit here, humans who died to protect what they held dear and the mourning tears of the ones that they left behind, as they returned to the earth at the tree's gnarled roots.

And here it is again, reacting to the pulse of Raphael's grace, in his unshakeable love for the traditions and orders of his brothers, his fervent hope that humanity might end so that the angels can return to peace in Heaven after completing the last of their absent Father's wishes.

The shard does not shine for Castiel; his love is not strong enough to tempt it.

And Raphael knows. He smiles, stretching his vessel's pretty lips into an ugly sneer as he steps forward, as he backhands Castiel across the face and sends him flying backwards, shattering Edward Rogers' headstone on impact. He grunts, feels his incomplete grace writhe in agony under Raphael's magnificence, under the invisible torments of his divine beauty as it sears against the unfinished edges of his own essence.

"Was it worth it, Castiel?" Raphael asks, as Castiel gasps on the floor, struggling to rise. "To strive so hard only to learn that our place is absolute, that our Father created us so that we would already stand at the best we could ever be? Have you learned your lesson?" Raphael pauses at Balthazar's prone body, lifting the unconscious angel up again by the back of the head, holding him up so Castiel can see the injuries that mar his brother's wings, his grace, his vessel. "Was humanity worth this defilement? Their love, their puny, selfish love, is not enough to power you, brother. They give you nothing in return for all you have sacrificed."

He wordlessly tosses Balthazar aside again, ripping a pained grunt from the injured angel as he stalks towards Castiel. "Dean Winchester cannot provide you with even a fraction of what you have lost, Castiel. There is no love on this mud heap that is comparable to that of Heaven. Surrender. Pledge your loyalty to me." He reaches out with a compassionate hand, touching it to his brother's cheek. "Come home and you will find that I can be merciful."

Castiel staggers to his feet again, wipes blood from his mouth as he stumbles backwards over the wreckage of Edward Rogers' grave in an attempt to get away from the warmth of Raphael's touch, the promise of Heaven's embrace.

"And if I refuse?"

A hard edge glints in the thick-lashed eyes of Raphael's pretty vessel. "Then," he says calmly, and slams his palm against Castiel's forehead as if he is a demon to be exorcised, as if he is one of Lucifer's abominations, "you will die, brother." Light pulses from the place where their skin meets, searing hot and agonizing.

Castiel screams.

* * *

Dean pulls up to the gates of Cheltenham in the middle of one heck of a summer rainstorm, the Impala's breaks screeching protest as he goes from sixty to zero in no time flat, the sound somehow still audible despite the rolling, angry thunder that rings too close to home in Dean's ears. He remembers a storm like this once, many years and a falling Cas ago, when the two of them had squatted in an abandoned house together during the apocalypse and called down the wrath of an archangel without fear of the repercussions.

Raphael is here.

An _archangel _is here. Dean knows that should be terrifying. But all he feels is that Cas is in trouble, that he should hurry the fuck up and find the angel before he's gone again, maybe this time forever.

Castiel should not have to die for his love, not again.

"You won't," he feels himself saying to mini-Cas reassuringly, the grace pulsing warm and familiar against his chest. "No more dying, dude, you hear me? I'm not watching it happen again."

Mini-Cas thrums with a healthy dose of trepidation and hope. Which is fair, because you know, they're taking on an archangel.

Setting his jaw, Dean ignores the rain, the thunder, and the lightning, ignores the way that the entire city seems to be in the midst of a blackout and he can barely see his own hand in front of his face for all the water pouring out of the sky in sheets. He grabs the angel killing sword he's kept in the Impala's trunk ever since Van Nuys and dashes for the gates, blinking rain water from his eyes as he picks the lock and swings into the cemetery, hand up to shield himself from the debris being blown around by the screaming winds.

Mini-Cas beats a rhythm of concern against his breast that he tempers with reassurance. A hurricane in the middle of a creepy cemetery? No problem. Everything's going to be okay. Cas is going to be Cas, is going to _stay_ Cas, stay_alive_, and they're all going to make it and the world is going to stay in one goddamned piece. They survived age old prophecies of the apocalypse, defied Heaven, and freaking beat the devil. No second rate archangel is going to mess with _that_. They didn't get all the way here after everything that happened the last three years just to putter out in a lame showing against Heaven and Hell's C-team hitters.

The determined vibes he's sending must be like grace vitamins or something, because if anything, mini-Cas gets brighter, so white against the edges that it seems to banish the dark rage of the storm from the area immediately around Dean, determinedly lighting his path for him and keeping the cold and wet and flying debris at bay as best it can.

He and Cas have always managed to fall into an easy sort of teamwork that way.

From there, with mini-Cas lighting the way and keeping him upright in the wind, it doesn't take long for Dean to find Raphael and Cas, even in the swirling chaos of the storm.

Dean is pretty sure the only creatures on the planet who could fight in a graveyard in the dead of night during the summer's worst thunderstorm and still have the place lit up like Superbowl stadium on gameday are the freaking angels.

And the only one that can make the blood in his veins run cold like this is Castiel.

Castiel, who is being forced to his knees by his big brother, Raphael's hand slapped against his forehead and leaking light as he makes Castiel scream for it. Dean feels the breath forced from his lungs as he takes in the sight of Raphael grimly torturing Cas to death like that, making the grace bleed out of him through his eyes and ears and mouth as he stands above him—his own goddamned _brother__—_ calmly watching him die.

"Cas!" Dean shouts, voice lost in the gale force winds swirling around them. He can barely hear himself, despite how determinedly mini-Cas pushes against the walls of the vial. "CAS!"

Somehow Cas hears him anyway. He always does; he _always __does_.

And Cas, despite everything, turns in Raphael's grasp to look right at him.

Dean looks back, and the moment their eyes lock—of course it's that wordless, determined moment; for the two of them how could it not be?—something searing hot and helplessly bright explodes out of the back of the tree like a shot.

Dean is forced to watch—helpless— as it slams right into Cas.


	13. Chapter 12

**Twelve**

The explosion that occurs at the moment of impact is strong enough to knock Dean sideways despite the fact that the wind and the rain and the lightning and thunder die the minute the last shard is freed from the trunk of the tree. Dean grunts and stumbles and almost manages not to fall if not for the unidentified lump at his feet that trips him, sending him flying face-first into the muddy ground with a grunt and a thud that knocks the wind out of his lungs for a moment.

The thud is his, though the grunt is not; Dean turns bewildered eyes to the body on the ground next to him and sees Balthazar, bloody and bruised enough to be doing a fair impression of how Dean had looked in the immediate moments after his encounter with Lucifer in Sam's body. "Jesus," Dean hisses instinctively, when he sees the extent of the damage.

Balthazar groans again, this time of his own volition, and feebly manages to roll onto his back, blinking up at the suddenly clear night sky with a look on his face Dean has seen too many times before, mostly on homeless veterans shaking in freeway underpasses and on late night park benches. "Wipe that pitying look off your face," Balthazar croaks determinedly at him. "I don't need it or want it. Besides, if you think I look bad," the angel drawls in a raspy, pain-filled voice, "you should see Crowley." There's the semblance of a satisfied smile on his face when he says that, and Dean can only assume that the demon got caught by Raphael —with some help from Balthazar no doubt—for trying to double deal between warring angels. Good. "Apparently there _is_ an advantage to being related to the people torturing you. Mostly in that they want to make it last longer." Balthazar giggles a little to himself.

Dean would take a moment to ask Balthazar if he's really okay or if the sudden wordiness is a side effect of whatever brain-scrambling torture techniques Raphael does up in Heaven, except that back at the base of the tree, important things are happening, all of which consist of Cas's chest looking a lot like a nuclear reactor. Raphael has been blown backwards by the impact of the shard-on-angel light show as well but didn't get knocked down, and Dean squints and watches Cas's eyes go flashy and glowy as he works to incorporate the last of Gabriel's grace into his system without sending up a giant mushroom cloud of angelic destruction all around them in the meantime.

"What's happened?" Balthazar demands, apparently coming back to himself enough to realize something _has._ He turns and hisses, struggling onto his elbows to see what Dean sees through the crack of the one eye he has left that isn't currently completely swollen shut.

"Cas got it," Dean mutters, unable to take his eyes off of the sight as Cas screams and Raphael stares in horror at the swirling vortex that looks like a parent of mini-Cas as it rotates around Cas's body like a freaky carrousel of airborne fire. "He got the last piece."

"Oh, good," Balthazar breathes, though sounds more sarcastic than not. Dean kind of gets that actually, given the circumstances, and he tries to scramble to his feet, to get over to Cas and do, well, something. He's not sure what, exactly, but he sure as hell doesn't want to sit here and wait for good things to happen.

But then Balthazar grabs him and yanks him back to the ground; Dean's chin hits the dirt with a painful clack and despite how fucked up Balthazar looks right now, he's not above reminding Dean that he's still an angel and has a grip around his wrist like a steel trap.

"What the hell?" Dean hisses under his breath, struggling to free his sleeve from Balthazar's grip. "Cas needs…"

"To defeat Raphael," Balthazar wheezes determinedly, and seems to have sobered up completely in light of Cas going nuclear on them. "Otherwise all of this, otherwise _losing_ him, will be for nothing."

Dean glares, hand automatically going up to the grace around his neck. "He's still alive. He's still here, goddammit!" He refuses to believe he's lost something when he can see it standing there, right in front of him.

Balthazar finally notices the vial, the determined light shining out from it, between the cracks of Dean's fingers. He looks confused at first, before his bloodied features soften a little bit. He lets out a disbelieving huff. "So he is," he murmurs, shaking his head. "How does he always…"

Whatever he is about to say gets cut off when something a lot like a shockwave explodes outward through the cemetery, sending Dean toppling to the side again and cracking or outright upturning a number of headstones. Dean suspects Balthazar's death grip on his wrist is the only thing that keeps him from flying backwards and braining himself on the loose bits of stone debris swirling in the air.

After that, for what seems like a very long time, it is eerily quiet in the graveyard again.

And then, minutes or hours later, it is Raphael's voice they hear first, his horror and his disbelief. "No," the archangel intones, sounding a lot like Dean feels. "This is not possible. This should not be possible."

When Dean looks up he sees the archangel braced against the fence of the cemetery, eyes wide as he stares at the figure kneeling at the base of the tree, the smoking, glowing vessel of Cas as he studies his own hands in wonder, blue eyes awed and curious and somehow, chillingly cold. The world around him, for the moment, seems forgotten.

"Anything is possible if it is the will of our Father," Castiel answers eventually, and rises to his feet in one fluid motion, a crackle of energy sparking in the air around him like static with each movement. He suddenly seems too big for his vessel, for skinny Jimmy Novak's body, and Dean swallows in apprehension at the sight, at the foreign, unfamiliar glint in Castiel's eye that lacks any of the warmth and wonder he had come to associate with that angel, the one who loved all of his Father's creations enough to die for them.

Part of Dean immediately knows what he is looking at is not Castiel. Not anymore.

Raphael doesn't seem to notice. "You," he growls, "can no longer use the name of our Father. Not as you have become, Castiel. You are an abomination to his laws."

Castiel's brow furrows. "Castiel." He is still studying his own finger tips, as if they contain all the secrets in the universe. "That is my name? Why do you greet the occasion of my birth with such hostility, brother?"

Raphael steps away from the gate when he hears that, circling back warily around the tree, where the silver edge of his archangel sword glints, buried tip-down in one of its massive roots. "You know this already. What games are you playing?" he demands, though he seems a lot less confident now that Castiel seems to be bigger than him again.

"I am newly created," Castiel answers flatly, and finally puts his hand down in order to study Raphael instead. "You are my brother. Raphael. I know this as well."

Dean feels sick.

Beside him, Balthazar mutters curses under his breath in languages Dean does not understand. The meaning is implicit though, and the expression he's making is universal.

"No," Dean whispers, fingers tightening around the vial that has suddenly lost some of its glow. "He's not…"

"Gone," Balthazar answers, and sounds genuinely mournful, as if he is in more pain now than he'd been when Raphael had tortured him. "No trace of him left in there."

Meanwhile, Castiel closes his eyes again, takes a deep breath full of air as if he's reading the textbook of the universe in his mind through the oxygen around him. "This is Earth. Father's favored creation. We are in the year 2011."

Raphael slowly kneels to pick up his sword as Castiel rattles off his random facts, thoughtful. "We are," he says, sounding curious, eyes sharp.

Castiel turns troubled eyes on him. "Brother," he begins, "why have we not brought about the apocalypse as God had commanded? Why does the Earth continue?"

"Balls," Balthazar murmurs beside Dean. Dean echoes the sentiment, but can't seem to get enough control of himself to form the words out loud. The grace in his hand dims further yet, light plummeting in time with his own overwhelming despair.

Raphael however, looks like he just won the apocalypse jackpot. "A good question, brother," he rumbles, using his vessel's voice in its most soothing incarnation. "Humanity got in the way. Do you know the name Dean Winchester?"

Recognition sparks in Castiel's eyes, enough to let Dean's chest fill with a brief flare of triumph. But then Castiel simply answers, "Yes. You speak of the Michael sword."

Raphael relaxes, making his sword disappear as he heads straight towards Castiel, all relaxed lines in his vessel's smart pantsuit. "Yes. He refused to conform to his destiny," Raphael intones. "Humans are very disobedient."

"Then we will force them to obey," Castiel says. "I know it is within our power to do so. Why have we not already, and brought paradise unto the deserving?"

"For one so newly made, you are wise," Raphael chuckles. "I agree with you; there should no longer be any delay. What has gone wrong in our Father's plans can yet be made right, little brother. We have the vessels, and a means with which to open the prison that contains our brothers. With your help, I can return us to that which should already be."

Castiel considers this. "I will do as you say," he answers eventually, voice blank, devoid of any feeling at all.

Dean feels something a lot like despair crawling under his skin, working its way through every vein in his body like a poison. "No," he grounds out. "It doesn't end this way. Not after everything… we can't…we can't…"

"Then what?" Balthazar mutters, clearly already resigned to this, to dying face down in a muddy field full of already dead humans. "What can we possibly do? Cassy is _gone_. Whatever is standing there in his place doesn't know you, Winchester. It doesn't care."

Something inside of Dean refuses to believe that. It is unacceptable. Cas has died many times, but he has never for a moment been_ gone_. There's always been something; he's always found a way back.

Instinctively, as it has countless times these past few weeks, Dean feels his eyes going down to the glass vial resting over his heart, to look at the fingers he has wrapped tightly around a the warm container holding the essence of the Castiel he knows. Mini-Cas thrums reassuringly back at him, though not as bright as before, as it had been in Sweet's living room earlier, flush in the glow of Dean's unwitting realizations.

Apparently it's mini-Cas's turn to reciprocate a sense of hope, because in a flash of inspiration, Dean grabs the chord and tugs it over his neck so that the vial hangs between he and Balthazar like a pendulum. "The grace," he says desperately. "I've still got this. You said it was important. That's got to mean something, right? This is part of him that's still here."

Some of the luster returns to mini-Cas's glow at the praise. Dean's always known Cas to be a stubborn mother fucker, known that the angel is always ready to fight for what matters most. The grace he holds right here in his hands, Dean realizes, can't be any different than its master. For either of them.

Right now, to Dean, this—Cas— is what matters most.

Balthazar's eyes fall on the bright container of grace speculatively. "Well," he whispers, reaching out to brush a fingertip across the glass, "it's certainly looking up from the last time we spoke." But then the look on his face crumbles back into resignation. "But it's not enough," he tells Dean. "It can't be. To think that he has a chance against an archangel brainwashing of this magnitude would defy the laws of all creation."

Dean almost says that it wouldn't be the first time Cas has done that, but before he can, Balthazar just shakes his head and lets his hand drop, away from Mini-Cas, like it hurts too much to look at it. "You have no idea what an archangel's grace contains, human. It would swallow this tiny one up in a blink. Erase it forever. Then there really would be nothing left of Cassy on this plane of existence. Do you want to chance that?"

Dean glares. "It's _Cas_," he insists. "All we need to do is reach him. I just need to…I just need to get a moment with him and then he'll remember. I'll make him remember."

Balthazar's answering chuckle is bitter. "You don't seem to be able to grasp basic concepts of size and strength, stupid little human," he hisses. "The strong eat the weak. You'd be sending what remains of Cassy to a bloody, horrible, exploding death. _Again. _And you'd have no one to blame but yourself. _Again._"

Dean feels the answering flare of indignation from mini-Cas, sees it when the vial of grace glows threateningly brighter. He can tell just by that that it wants to go. Fuck Balthazar. He's not the one Cas is profoundly bonded to. He doesn't _know_ that Cas can take all comers, that size doesn't matter, that Dean isn't letting his angel go without the goddamn fight to end all fights.

He's all in. And for a Winchester, all means _all_.

And so he turns away from Balthazar, fixes his eyes on _Cas_. "Just you and me, man," he says to the vial, and the grace inside of it swirls in ready eagerness. Dean manages a small huff of laughter. "So what are we gonna do?" he prompts, voice gentling. "Hold hands and sail off this cliff together?"

Mini-Cas practically throws itself against the glass in agreement.

And that's that.

Dean gets to his feet, holding the vial up in front of his eyes. "You sure?" he asks the glowing light inside, one last time. He already knows the answer. It's the same one he'd give if he were the one in the little guy's shoes.

Mini-Cas just thrums impatiently, butting against the walls of the vial, small and determined and not the least bit afraid of what might come, reminding him of a time many years ago in a prophet's kitchen, when an angel defiantly shouted to the heavens that he would hold them off, that he would hold them _all _off.

Dean can't help but smile. That, he thinks, is definitely all Cas.

It's enough for him.

He presses the glass to his lips and whispers a quiet, private, "You can do this, man," against it and hopes it knows that he means _I__ believe, __I__ love,__ I__ hope_. "I'm here waiting," he adds after that, voice quietly fierce. "For whenever you get back."

And then he closes his eyes and smashes the vial against the ground.

The glass shatters into a thousand pieces at his feet.

* * *

Castiel looks upon the world with wonder as he is suddenly made aware of it, as he is brought to completion. He opens his eyes for the first time, a newborn angel in the service of his Father. An _archangel_. He does not expect to find himself on Earth instead of Heaven when he comes into awareness, but if this is the will of his Father then so be it. He will serve in any capacity required of him, will take in this world as if it is the most important one, with all its sights and smells and sounds.

Raphael, his older, but somehow much smaller brother, smiles at him in welcome now, extends a hand for Castiel to grasp between his own as all the knowledge of the universe flows into the newborn archangel's fledgling awareness, filling him up, explaining to him where he is and what is to be done, who his friends are, who his enemies are, what his mission must be.

It is overwhelming and vast. It is everything and Castiel soaks it in, explores the encyclopedia of his grace for information and knowledge and experience, feeling as if he could never reach the end if he tried but also that he could do anything and everything all at once. He can't help but feel tempted to try, to push the edges of his awareness to their limits and see what he finds there, if there is an end at all to the glut of knowledge available to him. There is no end he finds, after a moment and a lifetime of trying.

There is however, a voice. It is faint and strained and he cannot make out what it is saying exactly, only that it is warm, and that it is flashing warning at him, flashing feelings of fear and danger and loss.

He does not like it, and pulls away—far away—back to the present moment and the familiarity of his brother. He banishes that unknown voice to the very depths of his mind and hopes it will remain there so that he may accomplish that which their Father set in motion millennia ago.

"Castiel," Raphael breathes, when he sees that the young archangel has returned to the present moment. "You must choose now," he says, almost impatient even as their arms remain clasped together in brotherly affection. "Are we, or are we not in agreement that it is time for this world to end? That the cage must be opened and Lucifer must be freed in order to set the apocalypse in motion?"

"We must do as our Father ordered us," Castiel answers, slightly puzzled as to why he and any of his brethren would be in _disagreement_. To disagree is a human flaw, he thinks. A consequence of free will. Angels have no need for the term, let alone need to experience it.

The distant voice in the back of his awareness flares in protest. He pushes it backwards again in irritation. It is a very un-angelic voice in his ear, not like one of the Host at all. "The cage shall be opened, Raphael," he says determinedly.

He feels Raphael relax and release his vessel's hand at those words, looking triumphant in a way that makes Castiel strangely apprehensive, that makes him wary even though he knows that he should not feel either thing in the presence of a trusted brother. Indeed, he should not feel at all.

Raphael, as if sensing his reluctance, stops to eye him. "Castiel?" he booms, his voice singing with the choirs of Heaven in Castiel's ears. "Do you doubt?"

"No," Castiel answers quickly, even as that voice chimes _yes_. "I do not doubt. My faith is absolute."

The words are stilted though, almost forced out in something that humans call a lie. But that is impossible; angels do not lie either.

And Raphael seems to notice this as well; his confidence fades and wariness returns. "Castiel," he says. "You doubt. Again you doubt. And you _lie_ on top of it."

Castiel shakes his head as the accusation swims in the air between them, Raphael's accusations stirring a strange feeling of familiarity in his grace that speaks of experiences that are beyond just those that all angels instinctively know upon being born, that are more than obedience and trust and faith in the Word and in their Father's plan.

They feel like more; like something that belongs to Castiel only and not to his brothers and sisters at all. They are thoughts and memories and feelings that are his alone. He should not have them.

Raphael knows he should not have them. The vast archangel _self _of Castiel knows he should not have them. Yet here they are, growing somehow, getting stronger by the moment.

In a flash, Raphael's sword is in his hand again, the lines around his human vessel's eyes harsh and determined. "Even given rebirth, you are an abomination, Castiel," he says. "There is no redemption for you."

But Castiel doesn't hear him. He tilts his head instead, thinking that he can hear another person speaking to him, a more important one that whispers sweetly against him, making his insides thrum with joy, as if he is hearing the voice of God Himself. "_I__'__m__ here__ waiting,__"_ it murmurs in the far distance of his awareness, and is so warm and bright that Castiel can concentrate on nothing else. It easily drowns out the anger and rage and disbelief rolling off of Raphael in waves.

And then he hears the sound of glass shattering in the distance but somehow right in his ears all at once; bewildered, he is forced to stumble as a flurry of warm and familiar sensations suddenly swell to an impossible height within him, in a bombardment of image and feeling, of touch and taste and smell and sound. It is something that is beyond the Host. It is just for Castiel.

It pleads with him to _remember_. To _return_. To _come __home_. Someone is waiting.

_Dean__ is__ waiting_.

The last thing Castiel sees is Raphael's sword poised to strike him down. Then there is a sharp pain in his chest— where his human vessel's heart beats— there and gone again in the blink of an eye.

And then he _moves._

Dean can't help but watch as Cas's grace slams into him, can't help but hold his breath and _pray_, because he remembers, he remembers exactly what Death had said to them when they'd begun this idiotic mission and he knows that it could end in a big fiery mess of angelic explosion when one grace meets another and they collide head on like bombs hitting the ground. By all logical explanation, it _should_ end that way, considering what he'd just done.

But something about the way Cas's grace had felt in his hands just now— so strong and sure and _joyous_—makes Dean feel inexplicably optimistic, like after everything they went through to get here, it can't just end like this, can't end with Cas gone and the end of the world at their doorstep. Not _again_.

This time, something has to change.

Except the grace impacting with Castiel doesn't so much as send him staggering back a single step this time, doesn't so much as cause a blink or a ripple in time like all the others had. Maybe because it's so much smaller. Maybe because it's just too weak. This time there's only a brief, swift intake of air, and a quiet flash behind Cas's big blue eyes as the grace disappears inside him. The angel's only reaction is to blink and shake his head, looking more like he'd had a taste of something vaguely rotten rather than like his entire world is changing.

Dean feels his heart sink at the sight, as Raphael brings the sword down directly at Castiel, who's just kind of standing there, staring at his brother in confusion.

For a moment, Dean thinks Cas—or whatever it is currently wearing his skin— has destroyed that tiny, determined angel's grace.

And they're all toast.

But then Raphael brings the blade of his sword down at exactly the same moment Castiel brings his up.

The earsplitting shriek of metal on metal rips through the clearing and suddenly Dean finds himself in the middle of an archangel fight with no clue whether or not the archangel wearing the face of _his_ angel even remembers—or cares—who he is.

"You do not have sufficient power to destroy me, Raphael," Castiel booms as he twists their locked blades around, as he shifts to the side and grabs Raphael's wrist with his free hand, forcing the older archangel's weapon from his fingers with a snap and a spark. "Your grace will not sustain you against me. I have consumed the essence of two angels, I have the power of your superior at my command." His eyes are hard as he says this, as he squeezes down on Raphael's vessel's bones threateningly and shoves the other angel to the ground, pinning him with a knee against his throat. "Surrender," he growls. "There is no victory for you here, brother."

Raphael struggles ineffectually as lightning snaps across the sky again, casting the two angels in stark relief against the blue-white glow of electricity in the air. "I am no longer your brother, abomination," he breathes, voice low and determined. "Kill me. My conscience is clean. I die in the service of God's will."

At those words, thunder roars in the sky overhead and the ground gives a tremor that nearly sets Dean off balance if not for the badly cracked headstone he is currently leaning most of his weight on. For a terrible moment, Dean thinks Castiel is going to murder his brother in cold blood.

"Cas!" he shouts, instinctively, despite Balthazar's protests beside him to _stay__ down_. "Cas, don't!"

Castiel pauses for a moment, looking at Dean with those inhuman eyes of his, head tilted like he doesn't understand, like Dean is a strange creature that he would like to study for the rest of time.

Dean knows that look. That look sparks something familiar in his chest, sets it ablaze with a rush of hope.

"He does not remember you," Raphael barks, sounding mocking even as his trachea is crushed under the weight of Castiel's knee. "I die comfortable in the knowledge that he will destroy you next, Dean Winchester."

Castiel glares down at his brother. Snaps his fingers.

Raphael disappears with a strangled cry.

Dean stares in horror at the empty spot the archangel had just occupied, at Cas as he rises gracefully from his knees, unruffled and stoic, eyes inhuman and curious and somehow far away and right here all at once.

Dean goes towards him anyway, staggering forward on shakier legs than he can ever remember having, suddenly unsure whether or not Cas is in there after all, wondering if Cas's puny, courageous grace got eaten just like Balthazar said it would, by the bigger, stronger animal.

"Cas," he croaks, after what feels like a lifetime of silence between them, "Cas, you still in there?"

For a moment, Dean is too scared to breathe.

But it's fine. And Cas shows him with just one word.

"Dean?" he murmurs, and sounds just like he does in the mornings when he first rolls out of bed sans grace, when he's irately demanding breakfast because his human body is making untoward demands of him which make it no longer possible to sleep despite how hard he tries. He sounds just like he did when he had that bug bite he couldn't stop scratching, when Sam had been forced to explain the in-and-out system of digestion and excretion to him the first time around, when Dean had happily explained the concept of Busty Asian Beauties and free porn on the internet. He sounds grumpy and ruffled and exactly how Dean has always wanted him to.

It must be showing on his face, because Cas is eyeing him strangely now, like _he__'__s_ maybe the one who's possessed by the essence of another being. "Dean, I don't understand your question," he says. "Are you injured?"

Dean lets out the breath he hadn't known he was holding and nearly starts laughing in hysterical relief at the cockeyed look his angel is giving him. He knows that tone too— just like he had known that look—and he is one hundred percent certain that that voice and that mildly irate, slightly bewildered stare can mean nothing but Castiel.

This is still Castiel.

Cas is okay.

And with that, Dean is staggering forward without another thought, closing the remaining distance between them and pulling the angel flush against him in a relieved hug.

"Dean," Castiel murmurs, voice full of reproach. He does not hug back.

Dean pulls back so he can look at Cas again. Frowns. "What?"

"You should not wander into the middle of a battle between archangels when it is not yet finished," Castiel admonishes him, looking him over carefully for injury, particularly in the area around his head. "That was foolish and very dangerous."

Dean nearly snorts at that, because of course Cas would take the moment to lecture him about being an idiot instead of letting Dean celebrate the fact that his angel has _not_been mind-wiped after all. "Sorry, man," he says, automatically. He isn't really sorry at all though, not when Cas is standing there and still _Cas_, not after he'd been forced to stand around just moments ago, thinking the guy had gotten erased by a giant burst of douchebag archangel grace.

Castiel just stares at him, expectant, their noses nearly touching.

And wow, that is when Dean suddenly realizes there's a complete lack of personal space between them and Cas wasn't the one to initiate it this time. He looks sheepish and takes a hasty step backwards, away from the angel he'd just been hugging the stuffing out of in public at what was probably great cost to his manhood. Luckily it's dark and the storm probably kept everyone inside.

Silence.

Then, "So… it's really over?" he asks after a beat, clearing his throat and avoiding Castiel's eyes as he does. "Raphael is…uh… " He trails off and makes a vague gesture with his hand that might mean _dead_ in his book, but actually looks more like a lame one-armed reenactment of _The_ _Wheels __on__ the __Bus __Go__ Round __and__ Round_.

Castiel looks impatient. "I have sent Raphael into time out in Heaven so that he may think about what he has done. Gabriel's grace has been successfully conformed to my own."

Dean blinks. Stares. "Time out? Really?"

Castiel gives him this long-suffering, but somehow incredibly fond look. "Yes. Our mission is complete and I have now confirmed that you are not injured so much as infuriatingly impulsive. It is over."

Dean sputters. "Well sorry, but I was wor…"

"_Dean_."

"_What_?"

Castiel's eyes bore right into his. "I find it is desirable to continue hugging now."

He emphasizes this desire by wrapping his arms around Dean again and tugging them back together, in what is a move that can only be called pure _free__ will_. Dean's arms automatically go up to reciprocate, and he muffles a helpless grin into the collar of the angel's ridiculous trenchcoat.

Before long, he finds himself murmuring, "Don't ever change, Cas," under his breath, because it seems fitting and because under the circumstances, he can't really trust himself to say anything else right now and not put his foot in his mouth in a horrible way.

Which—of course— is the perfect opportunity for Castiel to ignore the emotional tenor of the moment entirely and say, "I love you too, Dean," in that matter-of-fact, completely guileless, and painfully earnest way of his.

Dean freezes unexpectedly, mostly because he hadn't thought mini-Cas would be such a tattle-tale and a little because he'd hoped he could maybe put this conversation off for a while yet, maybe for when he's not soaked to the bone, covered in mud, and fucking exhausted. "You still remember that, huh?" he asks after a mortified beat, embarrassed as hell even though he can't bring himself to pull away from the comfort of Cas's embrace.

"Of course I remember it. I was there," Castiel answers, simply. Then the angel smiles, and Dean can feel it pressed against the damp skin of his cheek. "You said you would wait for me. I heard you." Pause. "I will always hear you, Dean."

Dean swallows, feels his arms tighten reflexively around Cas's sides at those words, thinking to himself that this explains everything, that it can be simple and straight forward like this, if just he lets it. "Yeah," he mutters eventually, and feels the tension drain out of his shoulders as he presses his face into the curve of Castiel's rain dampened shoulder and breathes in deep. "Thanks for not keeping me waiting long, man."

"Of course," Castiel answers, like this conversation makes any sense at all. Then, after a brief, thoughtful pause, he adds (completely at random mind you): "Your clothes are very wet. Perhaps it would be wise to remove them before you catch cold."

It is ridiculous and completely inappropriate to the moment considering Cas's utter lack of innuendo upon saying it. It is also possibly one of the hottest accidental pick up lines Dean has ever heard in his life.

Suddenly, Dean is laughing too hard against the curve of Castiel's throat to be embarrassed about how much he loves his angel at all.


	14. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Castiel has watched Dean sleep countless times before, has sat and watched over his dreams, guarding against nightmares of Hell and images of Stull alike, coaxing relaxation and rest to come in their wake. He has heard Dean sigh, heard him snuffle and mumble and roll over in his sleep, has learned all of the little nuances and signs of Dean in repose. He knows the sound of Dean at peace, when his breathing is soft and even, his body stretched out in a diagonal sprawl across the bed so that his toes hang over the edge.

These are all things Castiel knows, has seen, has heard and watched and learned.

They do not grow any less fascinating with time, especially not now, as he sits up on one side of the bed, the flat of his hand resting against the small of Dean's back possessively, wondrously. The skin there is warm, he knows, and had tasted clean and smooth and just slightly of salt and the motel's cheap bar of soap. Dean had squirmed and protested, slightly ticklish there, and Castiel had smiled and moved on, as Dean had wished.

Sam had pounded on the wall between their rooms in a mixture or mortification and irritation early into the morning hours, and Castiel had grown drunk on the sight of Dean laughing into his pillow and calling Sam a myriad of feminine names through the thin walls.

Now it is quiet, and Castiel watches Dean's dreams, as he has hundreds of times before. Tonight it somehow feels different. Castiel knows it has nothing to do with the new power thrumming under his skin—an archangel's power—and everything to do with his grace as it bursts at the seams with this human's impossible love. This is love greater and fiercer than all the love of Heaven itself.

This is the wonder of his Father's favored children.

Dean shifts in his sleep then, dislodging Castiel's hand from his back so that he can turn his head towards the angel in slumber instead, all the while murmuring incoherent human noises of content against Castiel's side, breath hot and damp on his skin through the thin material of the rumpled bed sheets and causing the dark hairs on his arm to prickle slightly on contact.

Castiel closes his eyes and soaks in the peace of the predawn hours.

A peace that is interrupted by a presence he can feel appearing suddenly in the room, one that is fast and unstoppable even to one such as him.

His eyes open, though he does not need them to see who has come. "Death," he breathes, suddenly tense as he shifts slightly, to place the shield of invisible wings between the looming horseman and Dean.

Death looks amused at his temerity, like he appreciates the bravery of a mouse standing up to so massive a lion, no matter how stupid it ultimately makes Castiel in the grand scheme of things.

"Why have you come here?" Castiel asks quietly, voice laced with suspicion.

Death simply shrugs. "I thought I would give my proper greetings to the new King of Heaven," he says with an air of disinterest, like this is merely a custom with which he must take the necessary steps before he can be off again, playing his role as keeper of balance in the universe. "I must say," he murmurs, running a hand over the dresser drawer by the door and wrinkling his nose at the layer of dust he finds there, "I did not expect this outcome at all."

Castiel's eyes are sharp, taking in every one of Death's movements for signs of aggression, for any hint that he has come here to harm Dean or Sam. It is foolishness, he knows, to try and stop Death, but Castiel has done many foolish things in order to protect these two humans.

"Oh relax, Castiel," Death chastises, when he sees the tightly coiled tension at the edges of the new archangel's grace. "I am not here to reap anyone. I'm not sure, actually, if I could." The last sentence is uttered with a hint of annoyance.

"I was under the impression that you can reap anyone you choose to," Castiel corrects, even more suspicious now. "Even God."

"Yes, well. It seems as if you and God are not at all alike despite being Father and child, Castiel. Because you, like the Winchesters, have somehow managed to thwart, dodge, defy, and escape every law of this universe. Even _me_. It should not be, but it's as if I cannot touch you. Or when I do—when I _try_, I suppose is the better word, as much as it pains me to use it— it doesn't seem to take quite like it does for everyone else." His thin lips curl up into a sneer at that, half self-deprecating and half hostile as he studies the image of the angel as he sits in bed, hand resting on the back of the human man who cannot even begin to fathom the depths of what has been transpired for his sake.

"You, created with grace a tenth of an archangel's, have managed to evade my hand as well as overpower one of the most ancient and enduring forces your Father ever created. Inexplicably, you have molded this power to_ your_ will, and for all the things I have seen since time was in its cradle, I cannot fathom how you have made it happen." Death stops to huff a sigh, sounding oddly tired and defeated, using the same tone Castiel recognizes that Sam does, when Dean insists that he is not allowed to pick the music no matter how adroitly he may argue his cause.

"All this is as you say," Castiel agrees eventually, carefully, "because of free will." He cannot imagine a more powerful force in this universe, not after all he has seen.

Death eyes him back just as carefully, as if they are somehow, inexplicably, evenly matched in this place. "Perhaps," Death concedes, after a moment. "Either way, that does not concern me. You can no longer concern me, not when you have defied every odd— for this human man no less— and saved a world that should have been destroyed as we all intended. Al I can determine from this outcome is that you have transcended even me." Death shakes his head. "And that, I suppose, is a first."

Castiel frowns at Death in mild confusion. "Then I do not understand your purpose here. Why are you telling me these things?"

Death snorts at that, looking almost genuinely amused. "Well, to be perfectly honest," he says, "I came to ask you what your plans for the future might be, so that I may adjust my schedule accordingly. I have never had to plan around someone else before, but it is looking more and more likely that in the future I must do so, given our recent change in upper management."

In his sleep, Dean lets out a rough snort of air before shifting slightly, so that he can move his hand to scratch his ass. Death looks on disdainfully. "Delightful," he drawls, before reaching into his pocket and impatiently pulling out his timepiece. He examines it while Castiel watches every one of Dean's movements with rapt fascination. "Well, Castiel?" Death demands, "What will you do next?"

Castiel realizes it is a loaded question. After the end of the war in Heaven there are many things yet to do, many plans to make. His brothers and sisters will look for guidance. The humans on Earth will always pray for celestial aid. There will forever be monsters to kill and demons to stop, a new threat looming in the distance hoping to take power, to destroy and enslave and _burn _that which is most dear.

But for now, for this one moment in time, there is none of that. All Castiel feels is peace. Joy.

Eventually, he turns his eyes back to Death, his fingers moving absently up the warm stretch of skin between Dean's shoulder blades to run through the sleep-mussed mess of his hair instead. "I thought," Castiel begins, and feels a small smile tugging curiously at the corner of his lips as he does, "that I would just sit here quietly."

And so he does.

**END**


End file.
